Tharja

Although she was my grandmama,
We all called her Miss Ida.
Children and grandchildren alike did succumb
To this quaint, obscure, southern custom.

In the days of gold and lavender,
Mother was "Miss," and father was "Mister."
When buttercups danced in the sun,
When skies were vaguely cinnamon.

She gave to me a lilac, gingham dress;
It was cherished for its prettiness!
Among my oldest memories
Are those of being at Miss Ida's knees.

She had a certain wood stove,
Warm like those sunsets of mauve.
And used to cook wild collard greens,
In days when I wore little blue jeans.

When bluebirds flew around the bend,
And crows from the sunny South End,
When cherries drooped upon the trees,
I began life at Miss Ida's knees.