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.