Poetry Dispatch No. 57 | February 27, 2006
Grandmothers…a spirit-force to be reckoned with, within us. Where the writer must sometimes go, fortuitously, digging into dry, into wet earth,…the odor of decay, fingers bruised and muddied, grasping for a talisman which speaks in stone, dust, worms, shards—uncovering old stories of who we are , what might become of us. Grandmothers are buried deep inside , deep beneath the earth, tangled, blindly branching deeper still…persistently sending out little white roots, green shoots. Shadow and light. Grandfathers brood in the dark, silent woods. Their long backs turned to us, their arms stretched to the heavens. Norbert Blei
not quite dark
little ones dance.
from WHAT GRANDMOTHER SAYS, March Street Press, 2001