Yes, my grandmother milked a scrawny cow down by the well-house.
She made cheese and butter, and usually had her arms in bread dough.
Yes, my mother read to me from birth.
She tortured me with opera.
But I recall better my grandmother’s purple rhubarb, every spring,
And orange morning glories, every summer.
Live on they do.
But I recall my mother’s spreading palm,
Bought two decades ago from a South Florida immigrant nursery owner and drug dealer.
Live on it does.