My Grandmother's Shawl

My Grandmother’s Shawl

My grandmother’s crocheted shawl has come

undone. It cannot any longer control

the temperature of a winter sun:

or more than a blanket for the cold

buffer the fears and phantoms of the night.

In her pink brocade armchair, where daphne

from the garden blossomed in her soft white

hair she hooked the wool across her knees

in hues of purple, yellow, red and green.

While at her stool, the bookmarked pages

of Bleak House, she was rereading in routine-

probably a third time. Dickens was her sage,

and she became a minor player in his fiction.

The shawls for all her pain - a benediction.