Button Bottle

Granny cherished
that depression glass bottle:
slender necked and tinted green,
air bubbles frozen in mid flight,
strained residues of craftsmanship
filled with cast-off buttons,
antique melding with the new.

How her hands worried
the neck and body smoother
than pond ice
each time on the kitchen porch
while Grandpa turned the earth,
she would count the memories in:
brass from Grandpa's WWI sleeve,
mother-of-pearl from Mom's prom night,
plastic black of a funeral dress...
I imagine her hands even now,
farmer-strong but weathered with liver spots
smoothing down the calico tablecloth,
sampling each button for size.
As she stared into each horizon,
caressing the ridges smooth
with the same hands that wrenched chickens' necks,
stars would dance in her eyes,

And I would sit in her aproned lap,
watching her fill in
the button holes of time.

Drew A. Foster