Grandma’s Lore

As the mahout guides the elephant,
So did the mystic rein in the snake,
A thousand perfumed lotuses half in bloom
Fell to the bottom of the black lake.

The water nymphs pleaded with the mystic
To let their husband – the serpent king – live,
But the fish in the lake struggled against the venom,
And the mystic heeded both the orisons.

And lo, the thousand hoods of the King,
Melted into water, his eyes suffused with diffident light
Soft descended the glorious spring
And the lake glimmered dazzling bright.

The billowing pink scarves of the mystic
Purified the dank air,
The swirly waters now fresh and green
Hid the greatly gleeful nymphs.

The painter, brush in hand, painted this scene on fabric.
As she recalled more of the mythology that Grandma had told her while she was forlorn or sick,
The sanguineness of Grandma’s words had always created otherworldly magic.
Aureate paints and deft strokes could do Grandma’s passion no justice.

Grandma’s Lore

Grandma had passed on; the painter was here,
Trying to show on canvas the spirits of Grandma’s lore,
The broken dried paint, wet with tears,
Could not bring Grandma from the other side of that Door.

As she held the incomplete painting in her hand,
She bid Grandma goodbye, who she imagined, was flying into the very lands,
That bore the epics. Her lore would live as her legacy,
which Death could never evict.