The Golden Curl

Down in the orchard an old woman lies - Once a fair beauty when Texas was young. She rests 'neath marble of adequate size, But most of her deeds are left here unsung. A widow from Georgia she came alone To a land of great promise and travail. Her husband lies in a grave without stone Detritus in a war destined to fail. Yankee or Rebel it mattered no more As she bent proudly to the task at hand. A farm where the Brazos lapped at the shore Grew to a section of prime bottom land. There were good years and, to be sure, some bad. Rich was the soil, but fickle was the rain That brought joy and tears, the good and the sad. Through it all grew cattle fattened on grain. She was eighty five when the drill struck oil, And she was wealthy the rest of her days. Still with a purpose she tended the soil 'Til she died one day with the sun's last rays. Her will was read in an unlikely scene. She had no heirs and the crowd was intent - It all went to a man in Abilene. A young cowboy with a western accent. A handwritten letter was with the will That called the young man by his given name. Henceforth he was called the "rich lady's Bill". He was sixty years younger just the same. "Your great grandpa buried my true love fair In a muddy battle in Arkansas. He sent me a lock of his golden hair - The kindest gesture that I ever saw. "Then your great grandpa in his turn was killed. I swore to repay his kindness one day. To give you this ranch is my promise filled To prosper or perish as well you may." Follow the Brazos today you may see A ranch that's well known in the cowboy world. It seems what a Texas ranch ought to be - A man named Bill calls it the Golden Curl. 7-20-18 For Contest "Any July 2018 Poem" for Broken Wings