She’s not out of the woods yet

and there’s no map for this
and the compass is spinning
and she’s feverish and forgetful
and can’t find her way.

Reluctant adventurer,
my grandmother sets out,
empty basket in frail hand,
red cardigan tattered and frayed,
walking into a fairytale.

My grandfather calls sometimes
through a rusty tin can phone
discarded by kids in capes
on the needle-lined forest floor;

It’s rare to hear just his voice, alone.