I heard an owl outside my window
Breaking dark and morning flight
Then another answers soon after
Together harmony hooting quiet
A leaf is heard falling softly
Autumn speaks a gentle sound
Lagging song bird breaks the silence
And I am the only one around
Rustic red donned the tree tops
Top to bottom as they fall
Sweet farewell for winters coming
Leaving the trunk standing tall
￼copyright: CMM 2020
Gather memories of you
Grandma’s kept secrets
© Christine McNeill- Matteson
My Gaelic daughter,
A child of grace.
A spirited heart,
An angelic face.
Fears of a mother
Go ahead of her steps.
No greater joy,
Her pain is kept.
Walk among the clover,
Feed under the thatch.
Angels go as you rover .
A lassie of no match.
Copyrighted © 2018 CMM
my grandsons and me
Walk free among verdant grass
Present will be past
Copyright © 2018 CMM
Hanging on tiny pegs deep within the ole’
country store, filled with scents of Autumn.
The replica’s of the past preserved in rust
and weary wood lean against white wash walls.
There in the middle of the vast array of
yesterday’s wears and pickled pears I
looked over to see the wonderful
handkerchief made of white organdy.
I was without protest taken to a place
so long ago within a southern church.
With deacon pews made of hard wood
and curved at the ends where I sat
sitting next to my grandmother.
Her scent of lavender and Jergens
Lotion combined with the seasons
brought in from the open window
Near-by, of trees, and flowers.
The handkerchief was wrapped around
her fingers as they wove into one another.
Her hands laid in her lap of homemade
dress, with tatting and laced collars.
Her thumbs were covered with the lace
handkerchief as she circled them around
and around, (as I watched), never breaking
rhythm the handkerchief would go.
The choruses were sang from ole’ gospel songs,
and the preacher would change his sermon about
one thing or another and the people would often
come and go, but not this constant memory.
The organdy lace handkerchief with painted
flowers and lace on the tips were always
in her hands, covering and keeping timing,
with timeless memory sitting next to Grandma…
© CMM 2011
I remember the little white package.
It was a rippled red ribbon so neatly tied.
Crossbow over the square gift.
Set on a table with white cotton tree skirt.
“It’s not much,” she would say.
“Oh, Grandma, anything you give is always too
We would smile as her trembling hands reached for the gift.
“Thank you Grandma,” as we opened the gift gingerly.
There in the little gift was a pair of sheer stockings.
“Grandma, how did you know, this is just what I needed.”
She would smile delightfully with light behind her blue eyes.
You see, the gift of love was one she could not wrap in paper.
The caring hands were never measured by a moment.
Her memory is not in just one generation, but many.
Her gift, I treasure, it was the gift of love left lingering.
Copyrighted: December 2016 CMM
revised: CMM 2012