I wonder of her lonely daffodils;
canary blooms beyond the rusted gate,
abandoned swift upon the rolling hills,
by fragile hands that tended them belate.
As childhood fades the black and white to grey;
forgotten scattered stories never more,
still life that clings to musty shelves array,
once riches held behind her cellar door.
Blue dainty cotton fabric spread around;
a worn and ghostly thimble lies in wait.
Her quilt rack in the corner stands unbound;
no longer used for heirlooms to create.
Remembrance of those days she did infuse;
when candy paid, and berries stained my shoes.