~ Cirrelda Claire Snider-Bryan
My grandma steps out every morning
in her canvas rubber-toed sneakers &
blue denim dress. Pins holding curls in her short straight gray hair
and tosses the pitch High fly ball
to center alfalfa field hits the Sandia
mountains smack in their hazy hulk
hundreds of black wet coffee grounds
spin out, land between green
blades settle to mingle with valley
clay, cottonwood/elm detritus.
My grandma’s passion for living here
in the face of the uplift - on top
of 5 mile trough, nested among shade trees,
apple orchards, parallel dirt roads running back
to ditches of cool river water - went with
her to the hospital. Saw her gall bladder
removed under harsh lights - cried when
she gave up driving and sat there mouth agape when the son his wife & 2
granddaughters loaded up each box
into the U-Haul. This passion wept silently
from apartment bedroom, staring out at replacement
butte surrounded by Colorado bedroom community.
It lived in her butterfly dreams during afternoon naps,
in her conversations with teenage granddaughters while
making apple pies, drinking MJB coffee,
smoking a cigarette after chicken fried in bacon grease.
It rebelled, refused to join the blasted senior
citizen group in the Rec Room.
It reflected in tales of stopping to look down at rushing
Clear Creek on the walk back from Safeway.
It watches 2 middle-aged granddaughters
six miles to the east and south
step out to greet each morning this mass of pink granite under the dawn.