When Babcia Caught Her Breath Poem by Ken Craft

The first summer we owned the camp,
we brought my grandmother,
who wore the same one-piece floral bathing suit
each day. I said no, but she took the broom
outside, swatted webs
from the clapboards, tried to reach the eaves.
"Babcia, please! Come. By the water, "
but she bent near the foundation blocks and posts,
pinching and pulling weed heads between rough
peasant fingers, the strong lake breeze
blowing her white hairs, mad dance
of dandelion fluff holding on.
Unbending herself slowly, she swore
in Polish, shuffled to the wood's edge, tossed
ripped roots on Canada Mayflower,
Indian pipe, a Pink Lady's Slipper.
"Come, now, " I said. Finally she sat in the Adirondack
beside me, her tanned, bony chest
rising and falling with the sweetness of breath.
Silent, she stared at this lake before her. And me, I inhaled
its strange newness in her name: The waves
against rip-rap. The wild mint smell. The nuthatches
scribing arcs about pine bark.
And, on the water, whitecaps drunk with the passing.
She took this in and more,
then said, simply, "I can't believe
it's almost over."