Grandma Gold
In a merry place along a path of white stone
Where berries grow amid yellow coxcombs,
A butterfly fluttered upon the silvery crown of a crone.
Fragility seemed present where her feet were prone.
Her children with locks of splendid red fire
Ran about in her memories like heavenly desire.
The sun in a soft and subtle pink set low to mark her year.
She felt its warmth upon her back and rested without a fear.



Midwife Birth
She wore a small white hat pinned close to her head
And tall black boots laced tight with thick thread.
With cheeks wind burned pink she went to work the family dairy,
Her face glowed with sweetness like a sun ripened cherry.
She placed her hand low on her largely swollen bosom.
Movement could be seen as she began to use some wisdom.
She cried out in pain with a ardent little prayer.
There would be no waiting , not even on a dare.
With cry upon sigh and all her might she held in wait for her midwife.
With composure gone the grace of motherhood dawned and it was time for life.
Curled up like a cannon poised out came a round of tiny hair covered head.
She pushed with all her might knowing there was nothing to dread.
Soon the tiny head was followed my a curled and wrinkled red body.
Eyes wet with tears and a smile like battle’s triumph, she victoriously embraced her precious new born child.