Grandmother stood at the stove
stirring two boiling pots of fruit preserves
with a large wooden spoon.
She smiled at the countryside
some light trickled through the window,
adding a glow
to her gently graying hair.
Adding to the flow
of the freckles on her hands.
On her hands.
Lined up in five neat rows,
a multitude of canning jars.
Mother rustled in the closet hall
searching for the paper towels
to clean off the boiling red
of raspberries stuck to grandma’s head.
Adding a glow
to her gently graying hair.
Adding to the flow
of red streaming down her arms.
Down her arms.
What we thought was red,
turned out to be
blood and berries mixed.
And she collapsed on to,
on to
the floor.