Miss Byrdie
Brenda Kay Ledford
After days and days of rain,
magic slips into the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Sapphire skies reflect in puddles,
three wedges of geese resound
across the Grovesī farm.
I will not succumb
to the power of autumn until
Miss Byrdie bursts forth.
Memories stir like apple butter
bubbling over an open fire.
The mountain woman cared
for her family and flowers,
gave rootlets to neighbors.
I cannot remember her face,
but when the mums explode
with gold each fall,
Miss Byrdie spills fragrance
upon a breeze.
