Harvested Moments with Granny

The best things in her house weren't stored in jars,

Or kept in boxes on the highest shelves.

They weren't the fragile, dusty things behind the glass,

But moments that we grew, just she and I,

A harvest gathered from the patient earth of time.

We harvested the silence, first of all,

Sitting together on the porch at dawn,

Watching the spider spin her silver world,

And learning how the light could change the leaves.

No words were needed for that kind of talk.

We harvested the stories in the dough,

Her hands, like maps of all her yesterdays,

Would show me how to knead the soft, white clouds,

And every loaf that steamed upon the rack,

Was born from tales of love, and loss, and life.

We harvested the knowledge of the seeds,

In gardens where the buzzing bees would preach.

She’d point to where the shy potatoes slept,

And how the beans would need a stick to climb,

"A lesson there," she'd say, and wink at me.

We harvested the warmth from quilts she’d stitch,

Each scrap a chapter from a worn-out dress,

A faded shirt, a memory held tight.

She’d tell its story as she pushed the needle through,

And wrapped me up in history and love.

And now, though she is part of that rich soil,

The harvest still remains within my hold.

The way I pause to watch a rising moon,

The scent of cinnamon in holiday air,

The patience in my hands, the peace she sold.

For all the love she had, she did not keep,

But planted like a seed inside my soul,

And taught me how to tend it, how to grow,

So I could have my own abundant yield,

A lifelong harvest, making me whole.