my grandmother’s cousin

arrived one summer

she did not speak

but sat cross-legged

alone on the bluff

above the lake

wrapped in an Indian blanket

not a serape but a blanket 

with vibrant geometry

in indigo, yellows and reds

she was a totem

silent and still

her silver hair a spiral braid

the length of her spine

like a geodesy of form and place

as though her gravity field

could accept no other force

than her own



Jean Cassidy  2021

Photo:  Indian Blanket Flower

family history, poetry, wnc poetry, wnc writer, wnc writers

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