Grasses arc ochre,

under frozen sheen,

sparkling like the laughter of my grandma,

bowing at her feet.

I see her there,

at a picnic table,

her wisdom words

still embedded in black, trusting limbs,

still reaching under the frost.

My hair curves white

like mounds of time,

older than the hills.

Charcoal on gray,

a hawk soars overhead

 “kee-eeeee-arr.”

A piercing perception,

this moment claimed

from the march of days.

Beside me, your blue eyes dance

like a boy romancing a girl

from long ago.

We meet them,

us

at the top of the ridge,

where today bends into yesterday.