A Life Lived Softly

She still lives on the old place,
in the same house all four of the children were born.
Last redecorated in the Fifties, somehow it suits her.
The road out front has never been paved.
Promised for thirty years, but never done.
County commissioners say there's no money.
Starts her day at six a.m., it's been the same for sixty years.
Before, when they had cows, it was much earlier.

The barn is empty now,
except for the old memories and a nineteen-fifty-two Ford.
But the chicken house is home to six hens
and an obnoxious rooster named Abigail.
Probably accounts for why he's so mean.
Everyday she threatens him with death by stew pot,
but doesn't really mean it.
After all, he's an old friend by now.

She tends her garden, though it's much smaller than before.
Three tomatoes, one cucumber, a row of bush beans
and two huge sunflowers, doesn't know where those came from.
The headgate seems much farther than in her younger days,
water just a trickle. Too many people upstream.
Says she feels closer to God when she extracts the weeds.
Has had to use a shovel lately, the back just isn't what it used to be.

Feeding the wild birds is a new thing for her.
She's hung a dozen aluminum pie plates
in the limbs of her favorite tree.
The one close to the house, can't walk as far as she used to.
Still wears an apron over her dress.
Says it's easier to carry all the darn birdseed that way.
"Those pesky birds" is how she refers to these new friends.
But she weeps when she finds one dead.

Most afternoons you can find her on the porch
wearing one of her plain, cotton dresses.
Pants are only for men, she believes.
She sits in her rocker, wisps of thinning white hair
peeking out from under her bonnet.
Hands folded on the Bible in her lap
rocking, rocking, rocking.

copyright August 16, 2006 Anna Stephens