Ancient and gray against time, the insistent pull of earth beckons her: “come be with me.”
She stands, no more a home for ponies, and holds a wild hive of honey bees.
Foxglove dance and encroach upon this cathedral now bereft of saints. This holy mother held and nurtured life under these towering oaks.
She weeps in want of being wanted in the depth of a burnt umber nostalgia.
Her back’s not broken but her face is forgotten through distance, time and the absence of a love that would remember her.