Sweet peas climbing up the porch on strings;
canary sings sweetly, and flutters his wings.

The aroma of cobbler invites me inside;
to peek in pots, where tasty treats hide;

Cornbread rising, almost like cake;
no one ever came close to the things she baked.

�Recipes in my head�, she always would say;
and that�s where they stay, till this very day.

But more than the suppers, or people she fed;
I remember the bible by the side of her bed.

She would read in the morning to start her day;
and then at night, before to sleep she lay.

When the church doors opened, you could find her there;
singing and praying... her soul to bare.

She never met a stranger, everyone was her friend;
always there to help, or a shoulder to lend.

I look back and smile, as I picture her face;
pot plants on doilies, made out of lace.

But the single most thing that sticks in my head;
is my grandmother's bible by the side of her bed...

Vonda Mullins... 2001