Grandma

On the first warm morning

she’s kneeling in the dirt,

smiling and humming

like she does making bread.

Grandma’s planting tulip bulbs

that are almost the same color

as her own worn knuckles.

Watch how her hands work

the dark mounds of soil

in that dirty confusion

of bulb and knuckle,

knuckle and bulb.

from Relatively Speaking: Poems About Family