I don't know her name, this relative from the past in the faded photograph, looking proud, but not quite haughty with a certain lift to her chin. A hint of mischief underlines the mouth about to speak her mind, or say something slightly naughty. Her shoulders are squared In a manner that belies Laughter lurking behind dark eyes destined to outwit time. Wisps of hair escape efforts to appear sedate or mild, and she wears an almost smile that somehow matches mine. I know it's in me too, the strong and stubborn pride that holds the tears inside; give sher an air, somehow apart. Though I don't know her name I'd wager she was next of kin to wildflowers and the wind, And I've inherited her heart. Reprinted with permission from Ground Tied Copyright © 2003 by Lyn DeNaeyer Messersmith Pine Hill Press

Bibliography Commentary Author Website Buy a Book Lyn DeNaeyer Messersmith's Page Writers On-Line

Return to The Rock

Nebraska Center for Writers