Poem: Matter

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By Cynthia Bloomquist

My grandmother is in the hospital with pneumonia.

She’s 86.

She used to paint whole houses by hand and trim hedges standing on ladders.

I always thought she was indomitable.

Now she seems so fragile.

My grandfather is using a walker.

He doesn’t use a hearing aid though he needs one.

I suspect his world is drawing more and more apart from ours.

He used to ride tractors through fields shouting for joy

and dig gardens by hand and

sunbathe nude.

Why does it matter?

What matters is that she painted and trimmed,

that he rode exulting,

grew potatoes,

and opened himself to the sun.

After 40 years of working with technology, and nearly 30 of those living part-time in West Tisbury, Cynthia Bloomquist now resides there full-time, following guidance from her muse.