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Whenever I make a mess of my day;
I hear my grandmother patiently say;
“Tomorrow is only a few hours away!”

She had a saying to right every wrong;
Wisdoms to help us to grow up and be strong!
Her cooking was good, her English was not;
The older I grew, the wiser she got.

She trusted in God, superstition, and sweat;
And made us believe what we gave, we would get.
She mended our dresses, and watched us grow tall;
By marking our heights every week on her wall.

She braided her rugs and braided her hair;
And wore the same apron and rocked the same chair.
And when we ran home, she would always be there.

Her chickens made pillows and dumplings with stew;
The wishbones we broke could make wishes come true!
We watched her rake hay, and when she’d allow;
Squirt milk at kittens straight from the cow!

We helped polish eggs, with our hands in wool socks;
To sell to the tourists, a dollar a box.
With toothpicks and sunshine her windowsill bore;
Our sweet tater vines that curled down to the floor!!

She didn’t like salesmen; and bankers were thieves;
Money she taught us to tuck up our sleeves!
If company came when the house was a fright;
She’d light all the candles, and turned down the lights.

When we made mistakes, she would say “Good for you!”
Then ask what we’d learned from what we’d been through!
When money ran out , her faith would endure;
And you know, she was right --we always made more.

Praise, she believed was a present unwrapped;
“Never”, she’d say, “throw a compliment back!”

Sad times were dealt with by forming a band;
With a pot and a spoon in everyone’s hand;
We’d march through the house on a zig-zagging course;
Singing and banging until we were hoarse!

Anger was spent on an old yellow broom;
Sweeping with vengeance each carpeted room;
Triumphant she’d stand on the porch and survey;
As the breeze took the dust (and the anger) away.

Moments of solitude, quiet time to think;
She found in her apron in front of her sink.
With smoky blue eyes, bespeckled and gray;
She was wiser than most in her own special way;

She turned tears to kisses, and teeth into dimes;
And me to a grown up who shares her in rhymes.-

She’s no longer with us, but I often think;
The reason for windows over the sink;
Is not for the light, as the contractor’s say;
But to stare at your garden and think through your day.

This poem is Copyright ยฉ softerware