I dreamed of The Old Woman, Ireland, who was dreaming of herself.
She sat in the doorway of her cottage facing West,
Her lap in its faded dress spread wide as the sky overhead;
Her upturned hands held peace.
Her head drooped drowsily onto her ample breast,
And her sagging cheeks shook with soft snores.
She dreamed unknowing in the pink twilight
and the sea sang its endless song nearby.

I imagined an old woman, my relative Joan Leahy, only lately gone.
She sat upright in her chair near the radio, and
As she aged into her nineties she sat long in that chair.
She gazed across the room and out through the blurry window panes
To ancient hedgerows that guarded the old ways inside her back yard
While the modern world conversed apace on the airwaves.
Hidden birds peeped the secrets of an unending present moment
While Joan sat; holding memories, holding welcomes
For those who might come seeking.

I met an old woman, Kitty O’Callahan,
Who left her bright doorway to greet me
As I stepped from the car onto the pavement of her driveway.
She clasped my shoulders firmly, and took in the whole of me:
Windblown hair, pilgrim coat, American surety.
Her sea-grey eyes as she looked into mine
Were my grandmother’s, were my aunts’, were The Old Woman’s.
Her smile spread delight across her face,
And she said with slow surprise,
"Well, now ... Aren’t you just grand?"