Memories and Experiences |
The Purple Aggie Her mind is going home to a white frame house Nestled among golden maples and long needle pines Hidden behind wild, rambling roses and vines. Still as the pungent fragrance that jets her mind. Half wiped tears stain and blot like tiny specks falling freely over and down a crumpled, tired and worn road map. She meanders to her throne The weathered, gray porch swing. She passes through wild grasses as the tiny insects march beside her to the tune of a fine Indian summer. Summer's twlight find them, all the brothers three Safely tucked beneath the front porch hideaway. Billy boy was oldest, vain and without shame Grape from the vine did wither him lame. Oh George, dear sweet silent one who toils Did vigorously exclaim "marbles" girls don't play. She could feel his hand of yesteryear As it placed beneath her palm The bright purple aggie that to her was so dear. She huddles beneath her sweater as she remembers young Steve. So full of life and vigor he leads on Riding the rails humming his song. The feat of standing is now done in a short, raspy breath. She exhales a faint whisper and suddenly dawns a wrinkled, but soft smile. Knowing absolute soon they will meet Time has sung her song. |