Nancy Lincoln's Grave

[LincolnMan]

Another poem:

Nancy Hanks Lincoln at Little Pigeon Creek

In early spring I take my bonnet from the table.
Tie it under my chin. The air today is damp, but
flowers are coming. I long to discover first blooms.
My basket by the cabin door stands ready. Sarah
and Abraham have lugged buckets the mile from the creek
to our meadow, where animals are tied and munch new
grass on last week's barren ground. I would be off to woods

across the trodden path where sky dips down -- slate blue, sun
lost behind a cloud. My soft skirts brush across straw stubs
where we loose cows and sheep to forage in September.
Now, as winter creeps away, there will be food for all.
At night I dream of flowers unfolding; remember
summer's warmth. Here, searching for green buds, I step over
low bushes to tall oaks. Sun sweeps across my shadow above branch-strewn forests that leafy roofs will cover.
Look! Here in the corner of one quiet glen is where
last August I glimpsed blossoms, frothy-white with heart-shaped
leaves gleaming in summer light. A cold wind stirs today.
Those flowers! It comes to me Aunt Betsy had a dream
the other night about a white bouquet. She told me
in hushed tones. But when I asked for her to tell her dream

to me, she looked away. Trouble filled her eyes. She said
I cannot tell you, Nancy. It's not for me to say.
I recall our first December here. The pole-house there,
where Betsy and her family stay, was home. Three-sided
with fire at open end, it sheltered us. My Tom filled
crevices with straw and mud. Now near our new cabin,
we save long boards to build a floor. God's love -- and hope of

warmth again -- guides me through my passage. But each year spring
comes late and I am tired. Now Abraham is calling
with Sarah close behind. He outgrows shirts and pants in
leaps. Just barely nine, he takes long steps beside my own.
He swiftly splits a log and writes as well as reads. When
daily I read scriptures, he asks me questions. I run
to meet my children. Today my basket holds no blooms.

-- Marilyn Marsh Noll