I saw her,  once,  when I was
so small the unpaved Connecticut road
seemed a highway of shimmering
suns.   My grandmother’s voice

introduced me to Hazel,  old
woman who lived there without
running water,  who peered at me
hard,  said Her eyes will go green.

Summer was just coming in,
I’m sure,  air warm enough
for windows to be wide,  and I
listened in my speechless shyness

where weeds tickled my grandmother’s
tires,  the skirt of my new-to-me
checked cotton thin dress.
She hauls the bucket for me

sometimes, and buys me groceries
I need—my ears catching
Hazel’s words, my grandmother’s nodding
murmur, surprise.  And then the smooth

wheels on pebbles and sand,  sleek
convertible,  brilliant white top down:
blond hair in a silken scarf,
dark glasses,  horn’s honk,  fingers’ wave—

There she is now!   Going home to Mr.
Miller. Hazel’s voice , simply accepting,
and me wondering why my grandmother
whispered Marilyn,  stars in her eyes.