It's a God's wonder
she could stay
there on her own
with only her cats
and the wind.
To save on taxes,
she filed papers
claiming her acres
a tree farm
where her woods
grew tall
and she grew old.
To make ends meet,
she raised chinchillas
in her upstairs rooms,
their feral fumes
swirling about the house
while she, herself,
smelled somewhat
like a polecat—
a little high
as some put it.
She could name
the stars in Latin,
quote Hamlet by the page,
and hold friends close
by serving them
her rare concoction
of human
understanding.
Toward the end
she became
more and more
of what she was—
with face furrowed
like scarred bark,
and like her trees,
holding-on
against the winds
of change—
tempered by time.
* * * * *
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