A poem by Jasmine Lamb:
A Sonnet for Aunt Cynthia
Queen, when I was young, I would quake When she called out to me. The whip cracked As she laughed. Sparks. When she talked It rang like a metal roof when rain breaks.
Still, I thrilled in her. Her mind as wide And sharp as the scythe that lays the summer grass To dry. Her house and porch filled light with grace. My sister calls and tells me she has died.
Today, December fifth, I cut the bright Ground with spade and dig up beet and carrot. My hands are caked in dirt. I like the work, but think of flower beds and hollyhock. I make this sonnet, drink gin and tonic And say goodbye to Cynthia tonight.