Every wrinkle, br marking her skin, burnt parchment, br every ache in her body, br every Great Depresssion, br every dustbowl, br all the backbreaking br work of men and women br who draw sustenance from the earth, br every graying lock br of her once-silky hair, br all the tears she’s shed, br all the tables she’s set br all the meals she’s cooked br when the crops failed br and winter loomed; br the tender glance br she gives her husband br when he’s broken br by cares: br All is written br in the holy book br of her eyes.