Grandma's light catcher

In the winter wheat
he handed her a small peace
of blue sea glass, reminding her
of a broken heart and intoxications past,
his way of asking if he could stay
now that his travels were done.

She took him in, made him supper,
and opened another bottle from that vintage,
thinking it had been a good year, thinking about the village
and the people who would call her faithful
and the many who would call her a fool

and perhaps…she thought of herself as both.

Truth was, she said, there wasn't another man
whose story she'd rather listen to,
all that time apart…and the edges
that use to cut somehow had become smooth.