My mother wore her hair in braids
and dressed in velvets and brocades;
her sparkling eyes,
an apt disguise–
above her iridescent dress;
her hands contained a warm caress.
As strange as it may seem to you,
it is not gowns of velvet blue
that I recall;
it is her shawl,
in tatters, placed across her lap
when she would rock-a-bye my nap.
c Copyright, 2013 Freeda Baker Nichols
(A Butterfly Sequence)