Virginia Matriarch Vs. the Ground

She's rickety at best at ninety Tough blood nails her veins to her rocking chair on the front porch sniffing out impending rain Her house coat hides her skeleton but for her needle legs which somehow hold her frame from gravity like the trappings in a spider's web She remembers nights of ink and silence underneath her stars but now her front porch sags and rests at the stage of sound and cars Her little home, her little porch off Interstate 95 has kept it's old Virginia appeal to the travelers who zoom by She hasn't changed a thing, you know, She lights her stove with wood Her outhouse watches the steel construction where the century pine once grandly stood She spits tobacco on the road and hollers at the wind "Bring on the rain, you blasted thing my life's about to end!" She's left her home to Uncle Shuvrow Her personals to May She's sick of new construction and is sure she'll pass away But the ground beneath her has tough blood and won't let go right quick It doesn't want to lose it's soul Her Virginia voice, it's tick Her footsteps make the ground alive Her younger dancing days still fresh It doesn't see her tired eyes or feel her sunken bag of flesh The ground just knows this woman like the back of it's aging hand It knows she reigns with countenance in a now developed land The ground won't let the storm begin It threatens the sky to obey This old Virginia matriarch will live to curse another day...