Past the garden gate
The jagged silhouette of a pipe
Puffs soft chugs of steam
That curl like the smoke
From a trembling cigarette
And settle on the milkman's crate
The house is cold-quiet
Lest for the toe-tip patter
Of Grandma
Up with the dawn
For she's hardly caught a wink
Drawing water for the kettle
From the grumbling sink
Morning breaks over us
In tufts and shafts
Of wool and light
Rolling, reaching, rousing
Grandma waits patiently
To be seen
The only woman for which she is now known
And stares hard through the window at a blackbird
Past the garden gate
