Her given name was Miriam,
But the old folks called her “Marm.”
She was well into her eighties
Before I was ever born.
How I loved to hear her stories
As I’d sit upon her bed,
Dating back to eighteen-hundreds
And the life that she had led.
Her springhouse stood just down the road
With water, cool and sweet.
We’d walk to it, she with her cane
And me with my bare feet.
I’d drink the water from the gourd
Hanging ‘mongst the food she’d canned.
We’d walk back slowly toward her house:
Two centuries, holding hands.
Copyright © 1998 my moleta ruth mccarter. All rights reserved.
