In the midst of weeds and grass
at Mamaw’s house
I found Lady’s Slippers.

Pink, purple, smooth and strange.
They didn’t seem to belong
in the landscape all around them.

Delicate and beautiful.
I imagined fairies were safely tucked
down inside their lovely pouches.

Mamaw worked in her garden
even in a skirt.
The old cellar filled with jars
and tastes I’ll never find again.

Her dark hair always pinned
and brown eyes twinkling
at the sound of babies laughing.

Hands so strong
they churned out butter and biscuits.
But so gentle when a knee scrape
needed her salve.