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A flutter of blue gingham beneath the eyelids
just before sleep, and I walk in my grandmother's house,
look out the window at the firs,
freshly planted, and low enough to jump.

Inside I am warm -- hot cocoa,
my wrinkled grandmother wearing her gingham apron,
the lingering touch of sheets
tucked with care the night before.

So small, my young spirit, tight as a seed
barely sprouted, yet I knew --  like the sure cut
of English streets and names -- that my grandmother was old,
and I, green and growing.

Now that silver runs its fingers through my hair,
even when I do not stand in moonlight, 
I ponder more on mysteries, wonder 
at the fruit that sleeps in trees --  

Feel, dancing deep within my heart, 
the unburdened spirit of my grandmother.
Her strong chi embraces me
like an eagle circling her nest.

Now she is the tender shoot 
reaching through another world, 
the maiden who can see
her bridegroom take the rainbow for his bow. *

And I, grown old as the firs outside the window
whose strong branches bear the heavy snow 
and warm the winter birds in their keep.

- Druzelle Cederquist
World Order Magazine, Vol.31,No.4, Summer 2000

*Reference to a Native American story about a spiritual
suitor who could be seen only by a pure-hearted maiden.

Poetry Notes at Luminous Realities blog