Depression Days

Hard times are here again. 
My mother recognizes them, 
speaks to me from her
grave. 

Waste not, want not.
A penny saved is a penny
earned.  A woman can
 throw more out the back
 door than a man can bring
 in the front.

I open up the long silence
of her words, see  her walk
the miles to teach all day, 
return at dusk, 

feed chickens, gather eggs
to sell or barter, some
chickens run before heads
roll and they are
Sunday dinner;

watch her milk cows, head
pressed firmly ‘gainst the bovine’s
belly, fingers gripped around long
teats, she pulls straight down
until milk flows.

I see the bean crop left to rot
atop the ground for lack of sale,
know years the harvest couldn’t pay
for next year’s seed, feel her panic
through sleepless nights.

Sometimes I seek her presence inside
this house as I sip tea, snack on cheese,
read the Sunday Times at $5.00 a copy. 
I hear echoes of her voice thru distant air,
“Be prudent, calm your fear.”

-- Joyce Holmes McAllister