The Old Woman

The old woman rises at dawn
Cooks breakfast for the old man
As she stirs the bubbling gravy
Turns the sizzling bacon
Her eyes stray to the open window
Where the new-plowed earth waits

Dishes stacked in the sink
She joins the old man
Beneath the cerulean sky
Laying out the rows
Mounding the hills
Dropping in the seeds

As the days grow longer and warmer
The old woman weeds and waters
Tending the green growing plants
With love and care
As if they were her children
Who all have grown and gone

The old woman picks the lettuce first
Along with green onions
She drizzles them with bacon drippings
And while they eat in front of the TV
She and the old man
Talk of long-ago gardens

A passel of barefoot kids
Running up and down the rows
More hindrance than help
So sent off to play
While the young old woman and old man
Do the work

In the height of summer
The old woman picks juicy tomatoes
And the last of the cucumbers
She and the old man
Eat them with a little salt
While watching Wheel of Fortune

The old woman rises at dawn
Cooks breakfast for the old man
As she stirs the plopping oatmeal
Butters the toast
Her eyes stare through the frosty glass
At the barren, snow-covered garden

Arthritis torments the old woman’s joints
Her heart flutters in an unsteady rhythm
Keeping time with a lonely mind
That is muddled with yesterdays
She wonders if she will see another spring
Or if she even wants to

©️2019 KT Workman

9 thoughts on “The Old Woman

  1. Pingback: My Oak Tree. | Marcus Ampe's Space

  2. There’s lot to recommend reading this poem. The many moments of simplicity give a good name to gravity – a feeling of intimacy would be another way to say. There are conversations both obvious and muttered under the breath that also make this poem feel alive. Please do keep writing, poems especially (no stories for myself, not me). Good job.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you for your thoughtful comment.
      I don’t see myself ever stopping writing, no more than I would voluntarily stop breathing. I feel my poetry is at best amateur, but it serves a purpose. I’m more sure-footed with storytelling, maybe because I’ve been at it much longer than I have poetry.

      Like

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