Grandmother

The stone arch blocks the sky,
A ceiling to the world.
And the blocks upon blocks are immovable,
With only a small doorway--
One path--
To penetrate the decaying enclosure.

But vines,
With their tense trickling fingers,
Reach up the arch like prayers.
They have only up to go,
Or lie dormant in the soil,
Never to bear fruit.

And amidst the clouds of flowers,
She stands:
A curtsey on her lips,
A kiss in her eyes.
With her arms white and soft,
With pearls on her neck,

She is beautiful.
Beneath the stone arch,
She grows,
Her prayers white and radiating,
Her heart red with petals,
And all behind the black and white,
Of photographs,
A blue sky--
Endless and vast,
Peeping
Through the archway.