On Sundays

I am in the mid-morning sunlight with my grandmother beneath her magnolia tree.  The flowers of spring have just opened after a soft rain and a warm night.  My sister plays nearby  in the yard, searching for toads hidden in the wet grass as my grandmother frets over the life of the blossoms.  She always worries that the blooms come too soon or too late or that a windy day will take them from her, sending the white petals floating down 7^th Street.  She worries about wilting heat or nipping frost in the air.  As she studies each infant flower, some of them still teasing their way out of round buds, I study her.  My grandmother’s form is mirrored in the curved branches of the tree.  I pray my hair turns the same silver, soft as down feathers, and my worries are as weightless as the petals on her mind.  The sun distills lacy light through the canopy of leaves that covers the ground and us.  She stands…

steady and silent

with her hand in her pockets

watching her tree grow