Rooted

In a backyard that looks like Eden moved south
to let itself grow over, my grandmother perches

in a white plastic lawn chair. She tilts her chin 
up, catches a slip of an aria from an open window–

a crisp French soprano trilling, I do not want to be
afraid. Her drawl is heavy on hot air when she asks

if I’ve ever witnessed a resurrection fern before. 
She is dewy, half-mirage, in a realm all her own. 

She points to an oak branch, split open in red dirt,
left from a summer storm. Feathered leaves tickle

its underside. She sips at her warm chicory coffee, 
tells me it can survive a hundred years in drought.

It will curl up brown and brittle, but at the first 
sign of water unfurl itself; join the living world

again. I take her slim hand in mine because I know, 
she knows how that feels. She guides me to the shed

full of her paintings, shows me half-done renderings
of the small plant coming back to life. Fronds furl

into each other, then open: a hand, offering itself.