She was hidden behind the garden wall
Wearing colors of a broken hour glass
A precarious flower with hushed recall
My gracious mother wears social class
Her words tumbled down like falling snow
Flakes of lost splatters on barren ground
No one could penetrate her gloriole glow
Her hair like a veil when she let it down
In the midst of the garden all in a row
Delicate figures with porcelain looks
Her cortège of dolls holding the books
She had read them some time ago
In days of yore she was a collector of sorts
Of elegant dolls in satin and lace
From Holland to Paris and fary away ports
Porcelain stares from a porcelain face
