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THE YEAR OF THIS SNAPSHOT

It was while you were still able to reflect sunlight

into the camera's eye

and mine. Lap of plenty, angry and

witty grandmother, mimic and storyteller,

the camera's eye and mine

agreed that your gaze was preoccupied, slightly

removed, as if you counted over and over

numbers that never quite

reconciled. It was always natural

to me that you were behind your drugstore's

counter in a flowered dress

days, but that peaches were spiced and canned

and butter churned, and strawberries picked from your

garden, and grandchildren sung to

and rocked by your own hand. Grandmother

I'm a late bloomer but I've almost reached the age

you seem to be in the year

of this snapshot. It was in your house

I had that dream first, of counting over

and over the stars, and never

numbering every one; at the side

of your bed I stood to protest my dream.