She died.

She died like winter passes

With the electric crackle of

Dry air and bleeding chapped lips

That never heal

He had died long ago

He passed like a stream in summer

Cool, and welcome.

She was broken hips

And sagging shoulders

The taste of apple,

Forever bitter on her lips.

Mother of Earth

Lifted up by the worn and calloused hands

Of her children.

Palms like leather carrying her

To the top of the highest mountain

So she could be closest to the one who made

Her.