241.May 5

Grandma Olga died at 04:00 this morning.

When my great Aunt Anna died, I wrote this poem, on the way back from Murdo, South Dakota in the late winter. I want to include the poem here, because I feel the same way at the death of Olga, losing all contact to the 2nd generation of my family. I don't think there are any left now that are 2 generations older than I am. I had lunch today at the Oaks with Sharon and Rachel.

(It was after I posted my poem that I got a call from my mother this evening, telling me that I will be a pall bearer at my Grandmother's funeral also.)


The Land of Her

There is very little time

to be young

when what's left

in the hourglass

is just dust

shooken up and

turned on end


though very few grains

remain to be keen listening

and quick reading

or by choice



there is too much

sifting beneath us.

I was told by my mother

years ago

in the land of her

that people were

living for something ethereal


than butter on bread or so

many dancing angels on

pins and needles above

the flu

season when my head

was equal to the huge

red cylinder

of a far away


but my eyes were right on

a circus of

lions and monkeys and elephants

and birds and what-nots

swirling in parade behind

a blue dot

which was me or

maybe the spell

that had me

shaking and tucked in

the orange and green

flowered sickbed and I

thought it meant death

with the animals

leading me, if only

so pretty


time has


left for the taking

as glass loses

sand escapes



from six feet under

I was told

I was a pall bearer

I carried the bier

and in it was my family

above all

I felt part of that

family mechanically lower

into the ground

without sound except

falling earth from above

dumping down to fill

the void

as skies turn to dust

the little life that is left

sifts the air.