May

From her back porch seat, she carries a load, no time to think of defeat, secrets like lemons steeped, ravaged lipstick Eau De Cologne, she makes a song of feelings, when lovers trick or treat, she discovers perfume soaked, they drink their whisky neat, living by a swollen creek, her Bible's brave and a bold, brings her sense of ease, a granny rolls her sleeves, she's no rolling stone, an MK rifle by the sheets, doesn't taste grape or yeast, isolated but not alone, what's better than a feast, measures out her runner beans, the kids still call home, blowing fields of blue wheat, it's her vision stowed.