My grandmother took such pride
In her springtime yard and gardens,
Filled from gravel drive to mountainside
With riotous blooms;
Her wrinkled, arthritic hands
Lovingly cultivated each plant,
Bringing forth a bounty of beauty
From daffodils to wisteria,
From tulips to peonies,
And where her work ended,
Somewhere past the rocky creek,
Mother Nature reigned supreme:
Dogwoods and redbuds,
And a vast array
Of fragile mountain blossoms
All competing for the lengthening day's sun.
I can still see the house, a hundred years old
And held together by love and prayers,
Surrounded by the gentle pallet of spring
With Mamaw sitting serenely
In the porch swing
Smiling at a hummingbird
That came calling.