One by one, we take her energy and try
to give something back; a shape, sound or colour.
Something she can hold onto or take.
She is scattered on the bed like rune stones.
We touch her fingers, her hair.
Give her sips of water
so that she may speak. Tell us what we can do.
Grandma, our oracle, our history fading with her.
She is a touchstone, my cornerstone,
I watch her shift from someone I know, I remember
in part, or I don’t recognize.
It is the same for her, this quiet exchange
of energy moving in and out.
She squeezes my hand, rubs off on youth,
youth rubs off on her. A charm, fading.
A light touch, and go.