Her face is like a pecan,
shelled and weathered.
Her legs are the roots of a cypress tree,
bent a little at the knees, but still strong.
She walks three miles to the mission church,
kneels at a pew in the back row to pray.
She prays for her son, that he might stop living
at the bottom of a bottle.
She prays for her daughter,
who long ago left for the iron city.
She prays for the child she lost in the winter of ’25.
The dusty light from the small high window
wraps around her like a blanket.
