At the Nursing Home

you asked me to open the window’
and pick you winter wildflowers
to catch mist rising’
snag the gold sun’
to signal the ground.
You said you wanted to become
the white side of the grass.

You were in white
braids, sheets, light all around you,
your nightgown a veil
your bones shone through
and they were beautiful as door knobs
and your arthritic fingers
were like railways

each time I left from a visit with
it was a long night trip
trucks honking on the highway
it was a drive through snow, cold and clean
of memory, longing, love, and holding on

At the nursing home
you asked me to pick you winter wildflowers
to catch mist rising
snag the gold sun
to signal the ground
you said you wanted to become
the white side of the grass

Anne Brudevold has taught at UMass Amnerst, SUNY Stony Brook and Westfield State College. She currently runs Eden Waters Press and is widely published. She lives in the Boston/Cambridge area.

Email: Anne Brudevold

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