Every sentence of her twang boasts of Texas being embedded deeply.
She’s ambassador to a “country,” of the privileged and those flattered to speak it.
The swooshing field sounds off from her Lone Star tongue.
Maybe, from tending that grain throughout youth, she learned how it spoke.
And, she plays master to rugged tales and dusty quotes.
Her exterior’s a novel.
You’ll find her skin is friend to the sun.
The harmony of light bronze is a story of defined moles, freckles so random, & thick scars.
They’ve a background canvas as sturdy & stubborn as the prickly pear.
You’d see those marksmen hands of hers wield a shotgun surgically and then go sedate a raging toddler to the deepest depths of slumber.
For, They’re confident of many trades.
She’s killer of the copperheads and, yet, her warm arms soothe souls from all fears.
Her attitude is fearless to the strangeness of the changing eras and to Satan’s threats alike.
When kin betrayed her, she still gladly wiped their tears.
And, who knows what rustic visions are seared to those prophetic eyes?
It’s a paranormal ritual when she takes sweet time to ignite those dim ambers.
She exhales gentle puffs and savors the pack.
The cigs are her old companions, as she absorbs the day’s sunset, simmering in the west.
To her, the mosquitoes don’t even bother with their attacks.
Over a cold one, I’ve no doubt she’d be provoked to tell her “Bonnie & Clyde” love story.
If you never had acquaintance with this Clyde, you’d soon know him down to his blood type.
You'd feel blessed to hear of their gun-toting love.
You’d feel blessed to hear of that “Old Western” couple crossing the border and getting married in a peppered fever.
You'd picture the marksmen made in matrimony.
You’d hear of the summer cookout that, ironically, set their love ablaze.
You’d hear of that lonely demon house in the field's Center.
You’d hear of his colon leeching him every minute of every day and of his horrific moans that still haunt her drums.
You’d hear of how the hands of medicine failed and how coyotes howled in the night when he passed.
And, maybe you’d hear of how a piece of her went with him.
You’d be blessed.
She’s still sturdy as the tree’s stump and tough as nails.
But, like that tree she knew when to sway in wind.
She’s not of great typical stardom, but do speak of her legend like some epic twister, of the yesteryears, that plowed for miles.
On par with the legend of The Alamo, her offspring will let the story grow and grow.
Her folktale lives from the sweltering hazy sky, to the hurricane-claimed coast, back to the prairie where it originated.
From the Soul,
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