Senior Citizen

Senior Citizen
My Grandmother talks to the ceiling
In a language of codes.
Confessing,
Not crimes, but secrets.
Confidences belonging to some ancient
Passed-aways; a world of horses
And backyard vegetables.
Water trickles down.
To swim she busted ice with Granddaddy’s
axe So they could wade in Winter.
When she asks for snuff
No brown powder tobacco slips
From my hand
To the lips
that kissed the forehead of a generation.