Lake bottom:
Clumpy sodless-grass
And mesquite;
Sunken hollows
Of white to gray to
Almost silver salt mud,
Where stagnant water wastes
Only at snow melt;
From a split-topped cedar post,
A painted tire warns,
"No Trespassing"--
Rust stained earth from
Nineteen-forties barbwire
Marking the only barrier.

No future on the farm,
He smoked and drank himself
To an early grave.
She was never happy:
Overweight, fiery,
Naturally sardonic.
We visited seldom,
Though Mother spoke
Of her often:
Emotional baggage
Beyond religion,
The youngest,
Closest to my age,
My favorite, still.

01/03/2009

Author's Note: Aunt Anna

Posted on 01/04/2009
Copyright © 2025 Leonard M Hawkes