Old and faded cracked and peeled,
Tears I cry from the loss I feel.
I had gotten over it, so I thought,
But the keys tell a story of the pain I fought.
She used to play. Sometimes in the wee hours of the morn.
Heartache, misery, telling of life death, and the day the world was born.
She was old, some said older than the hills and valley where she lived,
But she gave everything her poor old heart would give.
A yellow rose for the memory of an old woman whose star shone bright,
A life of greenery for doing everything just right.
A stem for the faith when she played her gospel songs,
Goodbye, Great, great, Granny. Time to go home.
© Cynthia Clark