Roses and lillies, beyond the gate;
four o’clocks bloom, not a minute too late.
Sweet peas climbing up the porch on strings;
canary sings sweetly, and flutters his wings.
The aroma of cobbler invites me inside;
to peek in pots, where tasty treats hide;
Cornbread rising, almost like cake;
no one ever came close to the things she baked.
“Recipes in my head”, she always would say;
and that’s where they stay, till this very day.
But more than the suppers, or people she fed;
I remember the bible by the side of her bed.
She would read in the morning to start her day;
and then at night, before to sleep she lay.
When the church doors opened, you could find her there;
singing and praying... her soul to bare.
She never met a stranger, everyone was her friend;
always there to help, or a shoulder to lend.
I look back and smile, as I picture her face;
pot plants on doilies, made out of lace.
But the single most thing that sticks in my head;
is my grandmother's bible by the side of her bed...
Vonda ... 2001