In her room she would stroll to the night table
a bent twig drifting through a minted forest
the old bark of her skin lotioned to smell like
spring in winter scenting a green-faded dress
and wrinkled handkerchief in constant clutch
she’d open the drawer and dozens of round
candies would roll forward and bang on the
front of it when she stopped
My great grandmother Ganny from the horse days
the old slow ways would hold one like a pearl
in two fingers and slip a squeeze to its edge
and pop it through the plastic into my hand
then I into my mouth
She’s a ghost now a bent one drifting through
a minted forest whenever my tongue captures one
of those ice-blue and white candies
wintergreen