Hi and Welcome to our Place! You are now in Butterfly Corners. This gift, I give is with all the love of my heart forever. Let this always remind you of our friendship and love.

Our Guest Poet
Judi Favinger

Grandmas' Place

It stands no more
That house on the corner
Gone are the sights
The sounds
And the order

Tracts laid out
In the memory of me
Of buildings and
Front Porch
Gardens and trees

Lost is the Cider Mill
The Barn in the back
Famous Log Cabin
Green House
Mrs. Apples Shack

Gardens paved over
Structures torn down
Making way for a
Gas Station
On my old playground

Everywhere you look
Those awful things abound
Do they actually
Need them
All over town

Judith Favinger 1999


Her face looked,
As her name implied
Like a withered apple.
Deeply engraved lines,antiqued with grime,
Covered every visible expanse of flesh.

Out behind the cider mill,
Down a tiny path, she lived.
It was hard to tell if the outside of her shack
Had ever seen the bristle end
Of a paint brush.

The single room,
In which she dwelled,
Held a pot bellied stove.
That sole source of heat
Also warmed her meager meals

Crowded edge to edge with today
And many yesterdays,
The kitchen table had no clear space
On which to set a dinner plate
Or even a pair of elbows.

Except for the rags
Adorning her body,
The bed in one corner was piled high
With the coverings she owned,
Mingled with dirty blankets.

Decades of a sparse life
Littered every corner of the bare existance
sustained within those walls.
Did her presence matter
To someone, sometime?

Judith Favinger 1999


Ruts in the grass
Where you parked the car
At the top of the steps
She stood
Backdoor ajar

Pick these cherries
Come quick was the call
Now's the time before
The birds
Get them all

Everything had been tried
To stave off the assault
Green garden hose
Tin cans
All for naught

Out came the ladder
To the top of the tree
Gods' bounty harvest
Placed there
Just for me

Ruby red fruit
From a long supple spine
Enticingly dangled
Your limbs
Off to mine

Back to our house
On the poch swing to sit
Hair pin in hand
To extract
Every last pit

Into the kitchen
Where miracles do occur
Measuring and stirring
Perfection for her

Memories of Moms' pie
With its' golden brown crust
Sugar and Almond
My lips
Do they lust

Judith Favinger 1999

poetry Butterfly Corners Our Family


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