Grandma's Not Gone

Grandma's Not Gone

This bowl of porridge so warms my morning,
and I'm glad I heard the early warning,
for now the porridge creeps along the tired floor.

To clean the broken bowl—
         an unexpected chore.

The porridge just takes another form,
even that which keeps my belly warm.
Oh I should mourn this broken bowl,

         instead I taste her
                   well respected soul.