Her by Kelli Lage
My grandmother’s eyes were a Christmas tree.
I look for her in the forest each year,
pleading with the pines to form into wreaths.
Wrapping my hands around branches,
hoping that if I grasp tight enough,
they will turn into a warm palm.
Patches of sun that soak into the bark remember her,
and wonder if their butterscotch flame is enough of a guide.
I always peer for her reflection
in the crown of holidays.
If I let chimes from golden years hit my palms just right,
I swear I can feel her laugh, ringing through my veins.