Art Copyrighted Ashley Nichole Jones
She
by Cynthia E. Jones
There is a book on the table, I open it now and again.
It reminds me of many yesterdays, spent with a dear friend.
She loved vanilla ice cream, black coffee and sometimes tea.
She was a grand old woman and a wonderful friend to me.
Lying on her lap, She sat in her easy chair.
My head on one side and my feet over the other.
She sang sweet lullabies to me.
We sat together singing hymns from the choir book.
The one She kept at home.
My bedtime stories came from the bible
and I remember her chewing gum.
Peppermint on her breath when She spoke to me.
She loved Wrigleys.
Her hair was grayer then anything I have ever seen.
It was almost silver and with every bit of sheen.
After all these years I still can not believe...
... She is gone.
So much to tell her...so much I have done.
On Sundays Grandpa would drive us to church.
Never getting out of the car. I think he was already holy;
She and I went though and we sang.
She was already holy!
Some Sundays mine eyes cry.
Copyrighted 2002 Cynthia E. Jones
Labels: poetry
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Whispers.. Darkness.. Purple Moon.. Military Woman.. Red, White, and Blue..
He
Lives.. She.. Undead Chant.. Time.. Life Storms.. How's
Mine?..
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I Weep..
My Love Letter.. Untold.. Perverse... Unclean.. My Sanctuary.. In The Spring..
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