I saw my grandpa only once after he died,
five years after, I still a child,
June sun on my bare shoulders like syrup,
the skin of his hand dry and crackly,
folded over mine,
neighbors calling out hello
as we went by, strolling around my block.
Next morning, the silver maple out in front
of my house shivered in an unseasonable breeze,
undersides of leaves catching light like mirrors
I saw myself in—a shattered self—
but smiling as I hadn’t in such a long time.
That tree, planted by Grandpa to honor my birth,
withstood all storms to come until the city cut it down.
Lana Hechtman Ayers has shepherded over a hundred poetry volumes into print in her role as managing editor for three small presses. Her work appears in Escape Into Life, Rattle, The London Reader, Peregrine, The MacGuffin and others. Visit her online at LanaAyers.com.