The Great Grandmothers

They called it Spanish Lady and whispered the name
while pulling fat hornworms off the tomatoes.

They pruned potato vines, then waited two weeks to dig
them up; in that time another neighbor was gone, or a cousin.

In tidy kitchens they sewed silk pouches filled with camphor
and hung them around the soft, small necks of our grandparents.

They made blood omelets and bone broth from the old hen.
Wrapped the beaks and feathers in newspaper for the burn pile.

The grim headlines turned to ash and floated up into the bright sky.
Look to them, I’m telling you. It’s not Spanish Lady, but it is not different.

Purple crocuses push fearless into this cold March morning.
Think of how they pushed through, too—lovely, even in their fear.