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DIRT ROADS by Barbara Jean Ruther ... a poem for New Mexico

by Barbara Jean Ruther
A relaxed mailbox out by the ditch
might have a name scrawled on it.
Otherwise, they say,
“Take the second dirt road past the arroyo.”
Weeds spill from clumps of dry soil,
tired fences of discarded vigas
are held together with reused barbed wire,
keeping the heifers at home.
Adobe haciendas grow from the earth
with modest windows, a little uneven
and screen doors that don’t quite close.
There’s a gathering of rusty garbage cans,
a couple peculiar dogs lying in the shade.
Monstrous and shaggy cottonwoods
decorated with clusters of stubborn hollyhocks,
no one thinks about watering.
Occasional pickup trucks stir the dust,
brown clouds glisten in the sun —
announce a visitor.
They come to spend evenings
on a rickety porch swing,
watch the sky change hues, drink iced tea.
There’s a peacefulness and calm
like the breathing of a sleeping baby.

How do you want to be remembered?

I want my Headstone / Urn / Eulogy to say "Dang ... she ran her own race without hesitation or regret."

Yep, sounds good to me!