Somewhere in deep recesses of my mind
I try to picture my great- grandma's face.
She left no photograph of self behind,
But I dream of her dressed in bits of lace,
Tatted perhaps, by her artistic hand.
Her sewing genes survived but not in me.
She lived, labored and loved and then she left
No memories for future progeny.
I've traced her name, it is all I can do
To give her substance and to make her real.
She was a living being who could cry,
Could laugh and all other emotions feel.
There was a time I could have asked my mom
If there were things about her that she knew.
That chance is gone and is forever lost,
No one is left who could offer a clue.
Dear Grandma I lend you my willing pen.
Reflect upon the life that you once led.
Be free to speak about your memories
And say the things you wish that you had said.
There must be lots of stories left untold
And lessons great-grandchildren could have learned.
Dear Mollie Blosser, I'd love to record
The place in hist'ry you have richly earned.
By; Joyce Johnson
Form Iambic Pentameter