Rita Matlock Gruenberg

Grandmother!

You who sang to green valleys,

And passed to a sweet repose at ninetysix,

Here is your little Rita at last

Grown old, grown forty-nine;

Here stretched on your grave under the winter stars,

With the rustle of oak leaves over my head;

Piecing together strength for the act,

Last thoughts, memories, asking how I am here!

After wandering afar, over the world,

Life in cities, marriages, motherhood—

(They all married, and I am homeless, alone.)

Grandmother! I have not lacked in strength,

Nor will, nor courage. No! I have honored you

With a life that used these gifts of your blood.

But I was caught in trap after trap in the years.

At last the cruelest trap of all.

Then I fought the bars, pried open the door,

Crawled through — but it suddenly sprang shut,

And tore me to death as I used your courage

To free myself!

Grandmother! Fold me to your breast again.

Make me earth with you for the blossoms of spring —

Grandmother!