Nana in White Flowers

Our little slice of heaven,

that lazy river, churning evermore active, 

chasing it’s tail 

over the edge of the cliff. 

Lapping off the moss-coated boulders,

Groundstones, pounding, 

kneading the algae infused soil 

into pesto-esque paste.

The kind your Nana would grind 

pestle and mortar style; back home

in the kitchen that faced 

The nuthatches swinging on suet feeder. 

Excavating underneath the skittish birds,

your Nana’s garden bore the scars of our glorious digs,. 

Unbeknownst to us, dinosaur bones lay dormant 

only 40 miles away. Nowhere near our woods. 

I zigged, you zagged, 

our tactical prowess known to every neighborhood squirrel,

eating acorns like popcorn 

as we stormed that bastardized Bastille.

Pine branches did always frame 

the world in more palatable outlines.

The kind that salted caramel 

left behind on the back of my tongue. 

Wrapped neatly, I hunted for their crinkle, 

forgotten under cushions 

of your Nana’s olive green couch. 

She was a generous, sloppy drunk. 

She was so much more. 

She was an adventurous soul

With arthritis and an arborist’s mind, 

nursing endangered species to health. 

Donning a heroine’s guise, she guided us at dawn 

through the narrow confines of the rock formations 

formerly found beneath their own waterfall, 

millenia ago. 

Emerging upon that ridge, climbing over hand and foot, 

we encountered that valley 

of milk white waves 

Rippling in the wind.

As if we were about to swim 

in our cereal bowls from that morning. 

Queen Anne’s Lace or Hogweed,

their sap all leaves a burn. As do the memories of her departure. 

We should have buried her in a pinewood box 

under milkweed wreath, 

drawing the Monarch butterflies from the valley

to rest upon her one, final 

time. 

But only after we parade her casket, 

pulled by the strongest oxen, 

through every nook and cranny 

with the potential for possessing life, 

for surely she touched that spot, 

and speck 

of life,

as she did mine.

Michael Carney