Daughters of Time

Stones gathered on chiseled limestone
     counting souls who have gone before me.
Coins on headstones, flags on tall poles,
     but not so tall as the mighty sycamores.

The cool brisk air broken by a warm 
     cup of tea to sip from.
Pouch of lavender takes me back in time
     to wood floors, dirt floors, glass bottle windows.

I look out on the valley, low water
     as the land suffers from drought.
Crying to Mother Earth to bring the rains,
     to color the leaves of autumn.

Sisters gathered in purpose of words,
     infinite love with cosmic relations
     as we, the daughters of time
     bring forth the future of the stars.

Written while sitting on the Blacksmith Cabin's porch swing during an Indiana University, Center for Rural Engagement, session for girls and women of all ages with author and professor Catherine Bowman.

Grandma’s Hickory Chair

The breeze takes my breath
	as I rock myself in grandma’s hickory chair.
Sweet smell of black-eyed Susans,
	birds flit along powerlines on the county road.
Corn and sunflowers fill farmers fields, 
	surprise lilies blooming in a ditch.
Children fuss taking off school clothes,
	barefoot in puddles after a steady rain.

Soon harvest will end as the first winter frost halts the growing season.
Soon the fields will be bedding down under a warm coat of leaves,
     as I pull out the tattered quilt I made
     back when my hands were still able.

The snow will come to prepare for spring’s growth,
     when my grandchildren will rock
     in their grandma’s hickory chair.