If Mama’s Glider Could Talk
Cold days, hot days, in between days,
The red glider rocked on the gingerbread porch;
Where Mama shucked beans, or mended seams,
And visited with comers all.
She was quiet, my Mama was
And would never repeat a tale,
Kept her opinions to herself,
And rocked the red glider well.
There was Dickie, the paper boy,
He told her of...
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