She huddles on her wooden porch
withered and bent by the winds of time.

Her skin, black and weathered, stretches over arthritic hands
as gnarled fingers, caress an old Bible on her lap
while she rocks and hums an old gospel hymn.

A shawl protects her against the soft summer breeze
that whispers lovingly through the ancient trees.

Her deafened ears cannot hear the bees that buzz or, the boards that creak under the chair as she rocks to the rhythm of the hymn that she hums.

Her tired eyes gaze into the distance
seeing more than the tall corn stalks waving in the wind.

She sees a young woman toiling in the sun,
And a yard full of children playing in the tall green grass,
while a brawny young man lifts his hat, and wipes the sweat from his brow
and then labors, once more in the field afar.

She rocks and, hums, and remembers those times:
The work that she'd done, and the family she'd raised.

She lays her head against the back of the chair
and smiles a sweet grin saying, 'Oh Lawd, Ya been so good to me.'

The rocking chair stills as she meets with her Lord,
and knows peace on this summer day.