She sits in her rocker 
Shelling butterbeans.  
Half Cherokee. 
Eighty-five years gone 
Eighteen children 
Ten gone. 
Weathered face 
Thin-skinned speckled hands 
Eyes of wisdom 
That understands. 
A pleasant smile 
Her words are few 
The silence clings 
Like the morning dew. 
Silky sunbeams 
Specks of dust 
Wrinkled sounds 
Sounds of rust. 
The clock ticks 
Time goes by 
A tiny tear 
Appears in her eye. 
A small drop of water  
In a sea of emotion, 
Her chief, her captain, 
Long gone; 
Swallowed by the ocean. 
The ocean of life 
The ocean of death 
Giver of life 
Taker of breath.  
She pushes and pulls 
And slides the yarn; 
It has a rhythm all its own. 
Busy hands, hands of beauty. 
The sun sets 
Shadows fall 
Against the wall 
In her quilted bed 
She lays her head. 
Her hands lie still 
Across her breast 
A smile on her face 
She's done her best. 
She enters now 
The silence of rest. 
The Holy land 
Sacred and blessed. 
Copyright May 24, 2002 JGO/Spanky Mongo