On the Untimely and Recurring Demise of My Late, Great Grandmother

Grandmothers die three or four times
a semester. Ask any teacher.

They sometimes all belong to one
slow-witted student whose wisdom

is never found in books. They die
on glowing fall days when summer’s

fingers still tease and tickle,
when the warmth that was returns to taunt

the young and set the woods on fire.
They’re buried on a winter morning

with no snow, cold biting the wet cheeks
of survivors. A day when comfort

lies late in bed, an extra quilt,
a cup of tea, no need to stir.

But often they book the spring flight.
With the first burst of forsythia,

grandmothers queue up all over
the country. They all long to lie

beneath that yellow-green spring
where the children of their children

so thoughtlessly dispatch them.
And if they knew, they’d understand.