A Taste of Autumn

A poem dedicated to my late grandmother.

a mess of glowing silver
hair spattered on a porcelain
arm
lidless cerulean eyes about to see
the difference between complete
experience and
total
fantasy
skin like the concrete
  proud as parenthood
    cold as
      grey (as old age)
        and
          crumbl
                    i
                      n
                      g
yet soft as a kiss from
clouds as
the taste of autumn lies
bittersweet in my throat
as residue from emerald skies
glistens in the moonlight
like tears of joy and relief
from heaven