Rippling

Down the fragile limbs of the sycamore

time was gentle, softly blowing

when I was small.  It was easy

to stare at cornfields. But later I found myself

by the pond on the edge

of rippling stalks, tangled.  Time

was fast because I was as tall
as I’d ever be, because Grandma
had died in sunlight. I couldn't stop

wondering why, why,

why she looked through me from the hospital bed, why
 she clutched my hand violently.  It surprises me

         
that I’m still
devoted to her
fear.