The hydrangeas in my new yard evoke past summers with my grandmother:
the magnolia tree whose lowest branch was a perfect height to
climb;
the gardenias by her brick steps sending up their sweet
perfume;
the way the Virginia breeze would lift lace curtains to
reveal
the blue hydrangeas
slumbering just beyond her rose-striped walls;
those steamy summer nights, their peace disturbed each quarter hour
by the reassuring toll of my grandfather's wooden clock,
which now hangs here, its
aged pendulum stilled.
No comments:
Post a Comment