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Poem
Gathered in the shade of her quaint little garden, 
 where a trellis was woven with rose climbing vines,
   something enchanting, had been deftly designed, 
     on an ordinary day, on a May afternoon.

A teapot was held, with her large knuckled hands, 
to a bouquet of her friends, (also neighbors of mine),
by the most gentile’ of women, that I've ever known…

It felt like a scene from a time long ago, when decorum was proper, 
 and manners were too, 
    before composure, and poise,.. were a thousand years old,
          where propriety still mattered, and was as precious as gold.
                                                      ~
Lilting voices would chatter like the birds on the wing.
Laughter was singing, across fragrant grass, 
Flower frocked ladies, around a few scattered tables. 
Linens and laces, under ashes and maples.
Silver coifed hairdos, with apple cheeked faces, 

  And me?   There I sat.... quite out of my place... 
   Drinking it in, in the cool, dappled shade. Taking a sip, with a small plate on my lap
                                                      ~
Delightful surprises to bewitch the eyes…
Delicate confections, cucumber sandwiches,
made by her hand, for just this occasion.
Branches of jasmine, covered verandas.…
Rose petal blossoms, painted on china.  
The most beautiful tea set, oh, how divine! 
Envious eyes, covetously pined for it!

She wore a floppy garden hat, a dress of mauve, and there she sat.
Her weathered skin, her cheeks of rouge... a smile to love,...you would have too,...
She had lived a war, and more than one.....iron strong, a generous heart
Knowing eyes, and sparkling wit, 
She would hold your hand in hers and smile,... listen well, of that I'm sure
  and then would sip and chat awhile, of this and that…
                                                         and you would learn to love, somehow
                                                      ~

I sipped my tea, and watched it all, and never thought of future things. ~

But now I sit here all alone…the chatter gone, the birds have flown.
Where once her charm, her love of life
the grand old ways, have slipped away

Soon after, in the autumn chill…word soon spread that she was ill 
      I was away, and never knew.….I hope, oh Lord, she was not alone ….

And looking back …I think of that….. and how strange the fact….. how odd it is…..
that something owned by someone grand, a china cup, so delicate, 
                                                                                 so fragile in the hand,
can last beyond the grave...intact,….
                    although a dear, enchanting friend, her life would have to end…..

                                                     ~ ~


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