Grandmother's Laugh Rises Upward

Kneading poems,
I fold in syllables that slide like honey
from my fingertips.

The spirit of Anna,
sits, watches,
whispers instructions,

her warm Ukrainian accent
filling
in my heart.

"A pinch of wit,
not too heavy on
the handling,
light, easy."

She begins to sing
softly,
an old folksong,

words
on a sun filled ledge,

"The poem,
a slice
of peace," she says,

"Serve,
with expectation."