Portrait of Grandmother Anna Sewing

Grandma Anna, in room of blue

Before your knees a basket full

Of needles, thread, to which you bow

As if you pray to spools of wool.

Your face is like embroidered stitch

And so's the wall and windowpane

And so's your veil and same your skirt

And same the chair's pale wicker cane.

But then, how strange, beyond the glass

The boat's impressionistic brush.

And sea turns sand turns tree turns cloud

And lacks your pointillistic touch.

You sit beneath a swath of gray -

A shadow formed of tiny dots -

And from your posture I can tell

Your mind strays from your patterned plot.