Currants

With the deep patience born of scarcity,
my immigrant grandmother picked currants,
tiny red glistening globes hung in green,
she did not hurry as she remembered

and forgot to remember in New World 
spring sunshine and, watching from outside,
it seemed that she might have been so happy
just to let one by one be forever...

she made a delicious jam which was less
than half the point,  content in her transport,
touching ruby berries, she was neither
here nor there, both here and there, herself

not burden free, but otherwise enthralled,
each currant the light of a small blessing