my grandma plays the ukulele

although she doesn’t yet know the strings,
she walks along the beach every morning
at seven o’clock sharp,
never looking for seashells,
always singing about the sun…

old toes barefoot on sand
in a crisply washed, fruity sundress
that billows like a kite

cheerfully anchored to the shore
with books of poetry
and index cards of homemade recipes
and fourty-minute phone calls with
strange aunts who live in Michigan

she cannot sing well but joins
the ukulele circle every morning
along the beach, and she’s taking lessons
starting this June to learn how to play,

but I swear, somehow she already knows
its sunny rhythm.

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