Washing Grandma's Hair Poem by Isadora Vibes

fragile - like a child
she rests bare flesh
against this cold
metallic iron space
the water spilling, slopping
echoing then stopping
tap is gushing, rushing as
on bended knee she lowers
shrunken frame
slightly strained in pain
she bends to be baptised
as I, in role of priest
reach down to scoop
warm water
over nape of neck
still brown from sunny climes
in Dionysus, older times
her leg a legend
some might say
that never quite recovered
pausing now I soothe her brow
head is bowed the
sparse spun silver, straight shafts
bleached by passing years
her fears and tears a testament to youth
and crowning glory snatched away
by careless driver
shocked but lucky still
this snowy thatch is soft to touch
full cup saturating
wincing, water not quite right
she reaches up, her sunspot hands
to hold mine tight
our spirits merge and soar
we are as one behind closed door