I try to remember the day my grandparents met--
(her hair the color of calendula,
his eyes half-wicked,
the dance of their bodies awkward
as young horses)
I wonder what her hands felt like,
when he first touched them,
if they were like soil and sea-shells,
blue as juniper from the cold,
if they were loose and full of seeds.
I remember, on their 50th anniversary,
how they poured brandy into each others mouths,
but Gummy spilled, never grace-queen, always only half-angelic,
& gumpy, with his railroad laugh, his maple-colored eyes.
I hold them still, they are the dust on the black-eyed susans,
they are the music shuffling through the balsam trees.