Grandma P Poem
As a child I read an epitaph on a
100-year-old children's gravemarker:
How oft' the blossom doth decay ere yet tis full in bloom
the frost of death sweeps it away and hides it in the tomb
Writing an epitaph for grandma, these verses sung through my memory.
This was not grandma.
She was a late season bloomer
a bouquet of thistle, bluebells, marigolds,
she sprang up again after each of many frosts
frosty deflating comments by guardians, keepers, spouse
she only grew more colorful
zingy polyester never had such a fan
she politely resumed her sunward pose
after braces and walkers and the tread of illness on her body
she politely
resumed
her sunward pose.
no delicate rose
no short-of-season annual
no day lilly
more like a 100-year-old queen anne's lace
a flower of gentry name
but rooted strong and tough of stem
and inside if you look, that tiny purple flower,
an artistic flair
a pair of miniscule hands spread to the air
an open hope
a yearning for love
This was grandma
blooming politely right to the door of the tomb
SSM 9/2/99
