Seventy nine pounds of wishing bones
crooked ancient over the wheeled walker
braving the great plains
from reading chair to raised commode
hour by hour
age upon age of rutted tracks
sunk into the circular story of her life.
Withered dreams stand blinking
in the shallow grass
of each remembered breath
where children drank her words
and left their sorrow
far beyond the tenderness of time.
Purple rivers underlie the parched indifference
of her fading wilderness
while you or I, the jury, reach consensus
in her innocent unending love.
She looks at you, and through you,
to her open sky
flash flooding your gullied eyes.
Susan Weber
Published in the Vol. 7 Spring 2005 issue of Tributaries, A Journal of Nature Writing
Author's note: The work of Philip Levine and Georgia O’Keeffe radicalizes me, in a good way. I don’t know how this will effect my work, in terms of blatant ideology. Both artists came to ‘painting’ what they knew and loved. Could it be, the audacity latent in this bare act is radical enough?