Oh Glory!

Oh Glory!
My first sentence
if one can call it that
Grandmother
silver haired
ironing board straight
willow thin
nut brown
loved to tell the story

Awakened from a nap
chubby cheeks, blond ringlets
damp with sweat
I sat upright
raised my face to the sunlight
felt a breeze
through an open window
Tiny chubby fingers
separated each curl
the wind touched my scalp
“Oh glory!”

“Oh glory!”
It was Grandmother’s phrase
sung out at the sight of a sunset
the thundering wings of migrating flocks
the smell of fresh washed cotton
or……..
the touch of a cool breeze

Delighted by the world
grandmother and granddaughter
basking in the glory
of sun and wind
of sound and scent and touch.

“Oh glory!”
The last words I say
as they lower her
to her final resting place
the sound of “Amazing Grace”
still ringing in my ears
the scent of green onions
on the wind
Sunshine breaks
through April clouds

“O glory!”

the stone barn

it stands empty now
there are cracks
in the mortar between the fieldstones
set so carefully
by work roughened hands
now gone from this earth

i long to go inside
to run my hands over the timbers
seek out those places where
a shoulder or hand
brushed the wood smooth
touching it thousands of times
going about daily chores

perhaps i would find inside
a pile of musty hay
with just a sweet trace
of the smell of summer
still clinging there
snuggle down into it
and through half open lids
watch the dust motes float
on shafts of light

as I did long ago
in another barn
in another place
so many miles…
so many years gone by