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.

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