There are things only a crone knows.
There are prayers only she speaks and medicine only she dispenses.
Hers has been a life of dashed hopes and unnecessary worries and inflated egos and violent injustice that still grasps for a safer and saner and kinder world.
Her arms are wide…
painter of lace and aprons,
of lemons and geese
index finger curled at the edge of her smirk
arrogant aura, part Crawford, part Davis
face parked at the intersection of Amusement and Surprise
pulled out of the South by her own bootstraps
and not without a family’s lashing
kept house like The Ritz
gave leftovers to squirrels
six decades of marriage twice left her a widow
mother once and stepmother twice
Mother Teresa she was not
but she knew where she wanted to be
and figured out how to get there
on terms all her own
brava
Our Lady
brava for that
I stand on uneven ground
scattered with frosted leaves at dawn.
Sky stretches in gradients of gray
and the clarity of sunrise is hidden.
Magpies congregate,
their yellow beaks cheerful flashes
in the mute of morning.
I step onto the path, dog tails wagging alongside,
and thank the breath and bones and will
that send me forth,
pivot of potential on the pilgrim journey,
one of many given gravity
by the ever present ballast of Love.
