February 19, 1942
Moon across the sky in the purple morning,
dry earth unfurling.
In another California,
my grandmother is packing
everything she owns into one suitcase,
two suitcases, the water still
in the clay pitcher — water un-wasted,
only what she can carry.
There is no moment in my life
in which this is not happening.
What is happiness? Two granddaughters
in a summer garden —
firstborn, second born — and grandmother
laughing. There is no moment
in which she is not alive
and rising, imbuing these hills,
this morning’s sky with shadows.about the author