When All Was Woven

There comes a moment

after crossing

neglected borders of 

lost rice plantations 

where the rider

views the tall pines,

and places her hand

upon the rolled window

as if to touch

red dirt sides

now cradling blacktop.

The last twenty miles

take as long

as the first three days.

The road intensity 

reaches a peak.

Soon the rider will

leave her shoes

forgotten for the remainder

and run rapidly across gravel

as if never no minder.

The plump grandmother

will come and crush

her to some blue floured apron.

The tall grandfather will

bend and pull peppermint

from a faded, Osh Kosh pocket.

The old uncle will sit close

whittling on the end of

a green cane pole.

His glance will say,

"bout time."

Soon meals will start

with women

spreading dishes round

an old plank table that

daily fed a dozen.

Then chores will start

and the rider will run

clothes through

a porcelain

front porch wringer.

At day's end

music will play 

mouth harps will clang, guitars,

and dulcimers will clamor a lap.

The gliders will sway. 

The fireflies will come.

The cousins will come.

July will come. 

At night's sleep

the fans will twirl.

Windows will be up.

Nature will boast and rant

and reckon a ruckus up.

The heat will cover the rider

in beads while she reads

some classic render

alump a feathertop

and quilted spread

where a mother always

leans to say,

"Sleep now sister,

the sun'll up again." 

2012 ©Teresa Price · all rights reserved