Grandma Pauline (Matthes) Maxwell

Nothing is
as it seems in grandma’s face.
She grew to be 99
bumped along, across the plains
rode a fringed buggy
reached the “Promised Land”
of Joseph Smith and Utah
circling back,
daddy asks his sleepy child

 “smell the driftless land,
the laughing hills of Viroqua?”

Time has a way of changing
her smile, the door handle, the wheels worn.
The warmth of winter, beneath
Grandma’s sewing hands
and summer breezes winking, lying
beneath the towering pines
I smell
and return to another time.

God bless this bounty I have known and to generations yet to dine. Happy Fourth of July!

Memoir Photography Poetry

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