Alta

Crone rocking the hours by,
worn wicker caressing
tissue paper thin skin.
Watching life’s passages
on the tiny porch of
the long closed general store
as dust stirs in whirlwinds
kicked up from pickups
tearing up dirt roads.

To some a forgotten relic
but I, all of five,
sat by her feet,
little legs dangling off the stoop,
hoping to absorb, perhaps by osmosis,
wisdom, stories, gentle words,
knowing she was safe –
too battle scarred by life’s trials
to inflict fear upon the innocent.

Children, grandchildren, great
grandchildren, great great grandchildren,
coming from her loins,
she populated most of the valley,
while many went on to lives
of their own choosing.
needing occasional reminders
she still remained.

Breasts gone, they thought
cancer would rob her womanhood,
but she defied their projections . . .
the old woman
with the name of a foregone era
still measured her life
by the rock of her wicker chair
and remembered far more
than most would forget . . .
and I sat in awe.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s