Buck Up and Function

A wise, dear woman,

she has a choice

were her life simply livid

she would be a lesser voice.

 

But she passes through the phases

like the harvest moon’s jewel

beyond the pear tree’s traces

in the early morning, full.

 

To her, it’s a life lived richly

from a faith hard-won

through years of serving

with a love, deserving,

who received the original call,

and whose mind now diminishes

after all.

 

Still, she speaks of happier days;

I hope to learn

her gentle ways.

 

I’d earn her praise,

though to me,

she already gives it.

Riding a Little Horse

“It rained last night.

My horse’s name is Dutch.

My daddy named him, I think.”

 

“I couldn’t ride last night,

It was raining

And I don’t like to ride in the rain

On the highway.”

 

“I was at school

In the one-room school house.

I ride a little horse

But it rained last night

And I don’t like to ride in the rain

On the highway.”

 

I laid my hand on her shoulder

Her expression was peaceful and calm.

Gray hair glistened

Casting hues on the ashen building

In the room at the end of the corrider.

 

“I couldn’t ride last night,” she said.

“It was raining.”

As we talked I could see her

Living her life in front of me

Existing

In an earlier time.

She was a shadow

Of my own dear mother, gone,

Yet, also here.