The Purple Aggie

The Purple Aggie

Her mind is going home to a white frame house
Nestled among golden maples and long needle pines
Hidden behind wild, rambling roses and vines.

Still as the pungent fragrance that jets her mind.
Half wiped tears stain and blot
like tiny specks falling freely over and down
a crumpled, tired and worn road map.

She meanders to her throne
The weathered, gray porch swing.
She passes through wild grasses
as the tiny insects march beside her
to the tune of a fine Indian summer.

Summer's twlight find them, all the brothers three
Safely tucked beneath the front porch hideaway.
Billy boy was oldest, vain and without shame
Grape from the vine did wither him lame.

Oh George, dear sweet silent one who toils
Did vigorously exclaim "marbles" girls don't play.
She could feel his hand of yesteryear
As it placed beneath her palm
The bright purple aggie that to her was so dear.

She huddles beneath her sweater
as she remembers young Steve.
So full of life and vigor he leads on
Riding the rails humming his song.

The feat of standing is now done in a short, raspy breath.

She exhales a faint whisper and
suddenly dawns a wrinkled, but soft smile.
Knowing absolute soon they will meet
Time has sung her song.