Clouds weep on the
windows adding their sorrow
to my unchecked sadness.
 
Sun tries to dry
sky’s tears, shine through
but fog shrouds sky,
 
effectively blocking
any warmth from penetrating
its thick, gauzy dampness.
 
Dark twig hands of leafless trees
offer no comfort of autumn color.
Tears washed  away all their joy.
 
It seems only right that
Grandma died in November,
when all nature could mourn her.

On the top of her kitchen cabinet,
usually “on”, Grandma’s
beige Bakelite radio, daily
blared out the travails of
Stella Dallas or the sweet
melodies of an Italian music show.
 
I often sat at her gray
Formica table to watch her
turn plain vegetables into soup,
knead flour into loaves of bread, or
clip the paper top off of a tall
tin container of fresh ricotta.
 
The fresh ricotta was
what I loved best—
its cream often had risen to top
and if I had been good that day,
Grandma would let me
skim off some to eat in my
 
favorite periwinkle Fiesta ware bowl
before her spoon stirred the
rest of the cream back
down into the container for
her to could transform into
filling for her homemade ravioli.
 
Her radio is gone, but
I make my own soup, her recipe,
and spoon it into that
same Fiesta ware bowl.
while listening to podcasts on my radio,
sitting in my own kitchen,
and wishing I could talk to Grandma.