A rural scenery of cornfields
in the window, where the vapor
fled, was behind her tender head
full of fine, straight gray hairs.
Nana’s attire was vintage
and smelt of home with a hint
of lavender and spice.
She was the kindest, most frugal.
Wore a gown for many years
that never got dingy.
The pale blue garment glowed as her
lustrous eyes were never stale
as she told the origin of
her family's tales.
A reused menthol between two fingers.
An old brown radio was playing jazz.
While she was singing, her diaphragm
began expanding, and then she blew out
smoke that coiled rather undemanding.
A mind sharp enough to slide down
the slippery slopes but land on
level snow, shall never be forgotten.
With hands sleek as clay, Nana’s touch
was ethereal and silk cotton.
Her aura alone could spoil a child rotten.
*Author’s Note: This poem was written for Vocal’s “Smooth” challenge. Thank you for reading.
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