Down behind the old stone wall
The fragrant violets grow
I pick them in a perfect bunch
Because I love them so.
My Grandmothers gnarled and busy hands
Take the bouquet with gentle care
She puts them in the chipped pink glass
To perfume her bedroom air.
Down behind the old stone wall
My tears fell on the flowers
I wept for loss and sought hearts ease
For many sorrowful hours.
My Grandmothers quiet, gnarled hands
Were crossed with perfect care
I kissed her still and silent face
And left a violet in her silver hair.
By: Jenny Matlock
This little poem is dedicated to my Grandmother, Frances and my sister, Elizabeth
This post linked to Alphabe-Thursday's Letter "V". To visit the other "V" posts just click here.
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