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 Spirit Chimes

Spiced Apples and Apricot Skies


For my great-grandmother

Your world was the
porcelain twilight of
a hundred and one
springtimes.

You were the quivering heart
beside the bed of
a dying child . . .
tireless love trailing
her last breath.

You were splashes of
laughter on the front  porch—
conversation served warm
with clouds dipped
in the apricot
blood of August.

You were the sorceress
conjuring dreams
behind the kitchen door,
when bread smelled like
brick and earth
and the Old Country,
and apples were something
sparkling inside
cinnamon mists.

You were a fountain
etching music in the sky,
a poet who could shell
bushels of beans,
strip sun-scented corn,
pour love upon
the firelight
and ignite our
tiny lives with words
pulled out of
lanterns.

You were rosaries played
upon the windharp
of a faith I couldn't
fathom,

the night watch of crickets
and busy hands
as I slept.

You are crystal wings
forever beating . . .
flicker of everything
beautiful still
living in my soul.

Patricia Joan Jones

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