2015 James “Jake” Cranage Poetry Award
Dipper
by Sydney Doyle
My grandmother’s babushka surfaces
above the shrubbery before dipping
down. I lie in the grass, waiting.
She weeds the flowerbeds,
and I watch the bright cloth bob
between the trellises
of moonflowers, unraveling—
keeping an eye on her wheelbarrow.
Noting the distance it moves,
each time, nearing the end of the last row
of flowers—how many weeds in the tray.
When it is full, I run it to the edge of the yard
and tilt its contents into the woods—
wheeling it behind the shed, when the solar
path lights turn on. Only after, when just flowers
are left in clean soil—will she wash
her hands with the watering can and lead me
to the pool. We sit with our feet
in the water. She undoes my braid—loosens
and pulls the strands apart, and then,
teaches me how to locate Ursa
Minor: first pointing my finger at Polaris,
then arcing to the two, bright
corner stars of its bowl.
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