Withered Hope
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My Maternal Grandmother raised seven children as a widow. Read more about her in "Poetry Group."
At first sight, her dark,
innocent beauty captivated
the spirited young redhead.
They lived, loved, breathed
through eight births
and one death, baby Loretta.
Spine stiffened, she watched
her love lowered six feet
into the bitterroot soil,
her thickened body numb,
her mind in time warp.
She tasted gritty ashes,
unable to crush the stone
lodged within her breast.
Children clung to her skirts
like baby opossums fastened
to their mother's skin.
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
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