ROSARY

For my daughter's daughter, I tell my stories over and again
like colored beads along a filament of time, family prayers:
how I kindled fire in Mama's stove and how I walked the road
to school or threaded berries for the spruce that Norman cut at Christmas.
I don't tell about Delaney not returning from Korea
or how Uncle Mack lost his arm to the crusher. I recall the smell
of peonies by the path, of fresh alfalfa. And I always finish up
with how I met her grandpa on a bus. By then the child is sleeping.

As a Washington native I lean on Northwest landscapes to shape my stories. Ellie Mathews