for maa...& because someone called it a poem

I remember,

sitting under an umbrella on my grandmother’s shawl watching her planting green

paddy saplings in the field

watching in awe as she placed the harvested paddy plants into the round grinding

machine with teeth to separate the grains

imitating my grandmother as I ran my bare feet through golden husked rice grains that

poked my skin, to turn them over when they were kept out in the sun to dry

feeling the hot polished rice grains through my fingers as it came out of the polishing

machine in the mill.