They must have mellowed out
like most other grandparents
after the flush and fever of firstborn
performance had receded to the wings
of second generations.
Gradually perfection and Leviticus
gave way to Genesis—that canny
compendium of bedtime stories
funnier to tell than the stony book of Law.
Loving, yes, but more upright with Mary,
Joachim, once old, grew fond of going
down on all fours to play the donkey
beneath the bouncy Jesus on his way
in the yard to make-believe Jerusalem.
With every new inch of silver lining struck
in the black storm clouds of her hair,
Anne began to smile more widely.
The strength she had taught her daughter—
lessons hard and useful to shadow workers—
softened some for the cherished grandson,
who learned second-hand from mother
the longer strands of matrilineal power.
Always close before they died,
leaving daughter-mother orphaned,
they are nonetheless near today;
Joachim and Anne
in the lines of your palm;
in the works of your hand;
in the ancestral song
the Earth Herself sang
the hour She gave you birth.