Spiced Apples and Apricot Skies

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Your world was the
porcelain twilight of
a hundred and one


You were the quivering heart
beside the bed of
a dying child . . .
tireless love trailing
her last breath.


You were splashes of
laughter on the front porch,
conversation served warm
with clouds dipped
in the apricot
blood of August.


You were the sorceress
conjuring dreams
behind the kitchen door,
when bread smelled like
brick and earth
and the Old Country,
and apples were something
sparkling inside
cinnamon mists.


You were a fountain
etching music in the sky,
a poet who could shell
bushels of beans,
strip sun-scented corn,
pour love upon
the firelight
and ignite our
tiny lives with words
pulled out of


You were rosaries played
upon the windharp
of a faith I couldn't

the night watch of crickets
and busy hands
as I slept.


You are crystal wings
forever beating . . .
flicker of everything
beautiful still
living in my soul.


by Patricia Joan Jones    

Author's Notes/Comments: 

For my great-grandmother

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onelilartist's picture

Every generation has an icon of love and sacrifice. I think I've just found yours. This is truly poignant and smacks of truth. You see, I have known just such an individual myself. Very good job on this one. Excellent. My Maw Maw's house was always a "comfort place" for me, and although she has been gone for over thirty years, I think of her and her impact on my life often.

No one will ever take her place in my heart, nor in the role she played in my own development. The words you used in your poem brought her back to me vividly.

Jessica onelilartist