A Morning Glory

From strong rooted strands of hair

To the tips of polished toes

From struggles with rent,

Creating meals from cents,

Carrying the load when Daddy was down and frustrated,

From his woman working so hard.

Washing clothes with dish detergent and bars of Ivory soap.

Mending white tube socks and polyester, wool blend coats.

Eating last—scrapping the pot.

Borrowing and lending

Lending and borrowing.

But still manages to gives 10% every Sunday.

A woman almost like her mother and her mother’s mother.

Daddy, now upset with her face and the kids too.

Vegetable soup and bologna sandwiches aren’t enough to fill.

The first hit wasn’t going to happen again,

But Friday’s beatings became her best friend.

A woman who has crawled, walked and ran

Her bloodline as thick as grapevines.

Grandma, mother, wife, daughter and sister.

Grandma singing songs of praise, who fears the Lord

and trust her discernment, smiling to her grave.

The Bible says a wife will be fruitful wine,

Sometimes bitter but better with time.

A mother who reads bedtime stories

and wipes mucky faces with sodden cotton rags.

A daughter who learns quickly from and adheres to her past.

And a sister who will tie knots of support.

All strong and as lovely as fig trees in blossom.

All outspoken without words.

Like the beauty of a Morning Glory,

Waking with dew on its petals.

A woman as concerned as the shepherd to his flock.

She is an Italian dinner with a cup of peppermint tea

heartburn and a antacid.