A POEM BY JOHN LEE
A baby’s pink and shy blue hydrangea
sit like colorful lions guarding
her steps that were made out of
field stones.
The porch was, as we say here
in the South, wop-sided to
begin with, as much of life down
here is.
The whole house sat on these
same kind of stones just high
enough for old dogs and children
to crawl under to play and sleep.
The woman who lived there,
I am pretty sure her name was
an old Shakespearean one—Ophelia
I remember you now in your bonnet.
I remember your kindness to my
frail grandmother. Unlike hers, your
back was built by long hours
chopping and picking the cotton at ten
pennies for a pound.
I have no idea why you came
and visited me this morning
during my writing time but you
have been remembered and you are always
welcome to join me again.