My grandmother would read fresh air
like the best line of a novel,
turning at the pages,
nature nestled into the palm of her hand.
I would hear the calling of the creatures,
blossoming from the earth as they listened
to the drums and the rattlers,
making music above the surface.
The mud was her factory of light,
and the scenery was her empire.
Through the window I watched her
remove her garden gloves
to cradle a tulip by the neck,
and let it spring back to life.
Felt like she did the same.
And then we dug a pit,
and buried ourselves in it.
For a little while.
Until the earth cradled
by our necks,
and let us spring back to life.