Grandmother! You who sang to green valleys, And passed to a sweet repose at ninety-six, Here is your little Rita at last Grown old, grown forty-nine; Here stretched on your grave under the winter stars, With the rustle of oak leaves over my head; Piecing together strength for the act, Last thoughts, memories, asking how I am here! After wandering afar, over the world, Life in cities, marriages, motehrhood-- (They all married, and I am homeless, alone.) Grandmother! I have not lacked in strength, Nor will, nor courage. No! I have honored you With a life that used these gifts of your blood. But I was caught in trap after trap in the years. At last the cruelist trap of all. Then I fought the bars, pried open the door, Crawled through -- but it suddenly sprang shut, And tore me to death as I used your courage To free myself! Grandmother! Fold me to your breast again. Make me earth with you for the blossoms of spring-- Grandmother!