Ma Nan

Her face would shame reticulated leather,
her daily wear,
six sales below a Penny's rack, long johns,
aproned with snuff stained feed sack
from disgorging canyons of drool.

She was,
quite frequently,
cantankerous as a feline in heat,
hand on hip,
wooden spoon flaying the air,
railing at the old man's transgression
thirty years ago,
his foul smell,
laziness,
and general good-for-nothingness,
as well as Nazis and Nips,
snuff that came with elephant labels,
Old Man Neighbor for his haughty ways,
and snakes for their slithering.

But oh she loved to sing,
her croaky voice carrying bass
to "Life's Setting Sun",
she loved eggs and cream days,
Saturdays eating dime burgers at Jack's,
buying her goods at the General Store,
while the Old Man spit and whittled
and I joined Tarzan on the silver screen.

And did she love her rocking chair,
creaking the front porch,
lulling the evening sun to a pastel afterglow,
while she churned her mason jar,
to the rhythm of small creatures
chorusing.

And when the mystic moon
first spread its glow
upon the ragweed fields,
she loved to dream of
days now flown,
her people's pastoral ways
along the Territory's creeks and hollows,
stallions turning soil,
crops basking beneath a summer sun,
and laughter,
reaping harvests.