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