My maternal grandmother, Nancy Frye, known to us as "Mamaw," lived in the very shadow of the Smoky Mountains. This poem is dedicated to her memory.

Soft are the many memories of childhood
Spent sleeping at Mamaw's house:
Feather-tick pillows piled beneath my head;
Hand-pieced quilts,
Chenille spreads,
And sun-dried sheets
To cocoon me against the chill;
The constant laughter of the creek
As it flowed,
Right outside the window,
And the occasional dance of raindrops
Upon her tin roof.
How I miss my Mamaw,
And sleeping at Mamaw's house.
  
c. 2009