With her bedrooms polished
and smelling of Pledge,
before another load of washing
must be gathered, my grandmother
lets breakfast dry on the dishes, drops
her stout body onto the piano stool
and plays the only hymn she knows by heart.

She could be chopping wood, the force
of her forearms and bosom ample
as her vision of a home beyond the skies.  

She doesn’t embellish or let her fingers
fly above the melody like a ragtime beat
in a rowdy saloon. Her hymn is rich
like her pies, clean as her home,
solid as her steps marching
through a cloudless day.