Grandmother Of Apples

Grandmother Of Apples
© Surazeus
2019 01 14

This apple rotting on the window sill
reminds me of the smile she tries to hide,
my grandmother who never speaks a word
while staring out the window at blank sky.

She holds the black book on her lap all day
but never reads the stories of its death,
while I bring her apples she never eats
though butterflies flutter out of her mouth.

Oak leaves grow from tangle of her long hair,
and birds build nests inside her shining eyes,
therefore moonlight beams from her open hands
since she changes course of rivers each dawn.

She smiles at me from every apple trunk
so I brew apple cider in her skull
which shines like the moon on my window sill
when I wake though she never calls my name.

Dressed in the thick warm skin of wolves I killed,
I walk along the river of her heart
far beyond the last hill of her warm breast
where she stretches her legs into the sea.

I always feel her spirit just behind me
but I see only apple trees wave hands
when I turn around to become her voice
that haunts the meadow of her open eye.

She always tells me what to do when I
pause on the shore of the river she dreams
and look into the vast sky of her eye
to see myself now wandering nowhere lost.

The apple hanging from the tangled tree
reminds me of the smile she tries to hide,
my grandmother who never looks at me
while she whispers my name from every grove.