Mountain Echoes
Squawking pesky crowsflutter above the line,
nipping her red, raw,
swollen, cold fingers
as she places the pins
so expertly on the
damp white sheets
that billow in the freezing
mountain air
She is tired and worn
from scrubbing and rubbing
on the wooden washboard
in the frigid stream that runs
down by the old sycamore tree
along the path to her dreams.
She is just seventeen
already a mother and carrying
another in her swollen belly
Oh, to dance, to play, to enjoy
being a mere girl
She sings as she washes
She would escape to the city
and ride the ferris wheel
go round and round
up and over
climbing to the top of the world
Then down she came to reality.
The baby's nose is running
she wipes it with the tattered diaper
that is tucked inside her torn
sweater pocket.
She turns to gather another
sheet and then she
falls to the ground
slumped over the broken
sycamore limb,
limp
she lies
and
the baby
cries.
The wind whips the sheets
like sails on a ship
traveling to
eternity...
kathy lockhart
9/18/06
Poetry by Kathy Lockhart
Read 546 times
Written on 2006-09-19 at 04:22
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