By: Ardis E. Parshall - June 15, 2017 Grandmother By Estelle Webb Thomas She couldn’t make a poem, so she moved like one, instead,And there was rippling music in the simplest thing she said;She couldn’t paint a picture, but a picture she could beBy means of soap and water and some home-made finery.She never earned a penny, but the ones she tried to saveWould have paved a shining highway from her cradle to her grave;Yes, tried to save...
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