She sat silently, with ancient-colored hair,
The only person on the porch there,
And looked away, with that far away look,
That told stories enough to fill a book,
That look remembered an antique day
In childhood’s springtime – month of May,
When she rambled beside, the rambling creek,
Till American Beauty blossomed each cheek.
She also reflected on a tree-house: “home sweet home”
In the orchard filled with McIntosh and Rome,
Where the work of Mom was keenly imitated,
In her branched house, airy and elevated.
Ah, that far away sight can so sharply envision,
A young man’s nervousness at seeking permission,
To walk her from the meetinghouse to her own,
Pop granted the OK, they walked home alone.
The porch was limited but large enough to hold,
In imagination’s realm, the whole church and fold,
As she prayed through there on the night.
Darkness moved away for aye – enter the light.
Then she saw herself pinched in buttons and hooks
(Brides will do anything for a moment’s special looks)
Standing in the vestibule, her heart loud and pounding.
Listening to his footsteps on the hardwood resounding.
– eab, Jun. ’77
Separate-Holy 