Anemones sit on Grandmother’s table
Their beauty, a joy to behold.
But no pastel pinks, no fragile flowers
Were placed in these vases, rimmed in gold.
Instead sparkling scarlets and radiant reds
And passionate purples, brilliant and bold.
I wonder if she once sat here for hours
Charming her guest with tales to be told?
For she was so like these blossoms resplendent,
First flowers to bloom, yet never old.