Gloria Dump
I am old and weathered, lonesome and sheltered.
I speak to few but am spoken about.
I am wrongfully judged and misunderstood.
I am called the witch and feared by those who believe.
I see with my heart as my eyes no longer can.
I’m blind to all but what I feel is real.
I longed for companionship until I met Winn-Dixie.
I am visited by the dog and Opal.
I see Opal as more than a red-headed, freckle-faced girl.
I know she shares more than just that with her mother, who is gone.
I listen as she tells me about her preacher father.
I encourage her to test her green thumb over peanut butter sandwiches.
I am recovered, but the bottles on the tree are there to remind me.
I share this with Opal as I know her mother had similar ghosts.
I am reminded of all the sadness I felt but comforted by the taste of familiarity.
I enjoy listening to Opal tell me a story of the civil war.
I help Opal spread happiness to all those who have an aching heart.
We all come together over Dump Punch.
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This poem is lovely, Kendall. I love the line, "I speak to few but I am spoken about." I also think the ending of your poem is very effective. Your poem, like the story, ends on a hopeful note. Thank you for sharing this.
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