Monday, July 28, 2008

My Kinda Woman

The Stoic - Gwendolyn Haste, 1930
She guessed there wasn't any time for tears
Because her heart had held them all unshed
While one by one her little hopes had fled
Down through those racking, windy, drouth-filled years.

The frozen winter when the cattle died,
The year the hail bent flat the tender wheat,
The thirsty summers with their blazing heat--
She met them all with wordless, rigid pride.

But when, sometimes, the children in the spring
Searching through barren hill or ragged butte,
Would heap her lap with loco blooms, and bring
Clouds of blue larkspur and bright bitter-root,
Then would she run away to hide her pain
For memory of old gardens drenched with rain.
The line about wordless, rigid pride always gives me goosebumps. The last stanza kinda ruins the whole thing but I suppose that's the point.