Illiterate

A wise woman I knew,
never could read a book,
she cared for the chickens,
sang and danced as she cooked.


She could make sweet candy,
curdling milk with lime,
adding sugar too,
it tasted sublime.


Building her fine house,
of mortar and bricks,
she mopped it inside,
with a rag and stick.

Not watching a clock,
when predicting time,
instead looked outside,
noticing sunshine.

Quickly sniffing air,
smelled visits from rain,
Once or twice saved lives,
curing any pain.


Her eyes could not read,
but her mind could see,
all the kindest hearts,
and the greatest thieves.


Brilliant like no other,
grand ties made us friends,
bonds with no known start,
never see an end.

– Grace Y. Estevez-Reddy

Illiterate



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