A widow and her next of kin traveled by car,

A new silver one that had not been far.

The mother was quite bitter and rude,

Yet it was her only child (not a dude)

Who could retort satirically right

Back whether or not it was a true fight.

Her brain contained aspects of wisdom. There

Atop her mind was lengthy honey brown hair.

Rarely, it would be tied back. Mostly it was worn

Wavy and down, free of product or metal thorns

Called bobby-pins. Dressed for comfort instead

Of society’s appeal, garments for bed

Appeared on her. Often with a laptop

Her fingers tapped and scrolled without a stop

Through a sea of blue waves that never swayed.

Many times that is how she spent holidays.

She laughed at posts misspelling “spooky” as “spoopy”,

Cried at others telling of dead band groupies,

And awed at moving art of cats being silly.

She liked to reblog – so it’s called – lilies,

Mainly Alstroemerias because she

Always had an eye for nature’s beauty.

When not online, she scribbled down words

Dealing with everything she inferred

From a book read not too long ago

To Satan’s breath drying hair in one blow.

Her passion was writing, more or less,

It seemed in all arts she had been blessed.

After hearing her talk, contrast to the normal

The oddity spoke to elders in a formal

Tone and to friends with a stranger code.

Talks of the near and far future she bestrode

Grimacing, for she liked to live in the present.

“Home is where the heart is,” she would vent,

“One cannot know what is to come nor

How far one will travel from home.” Sore

On the matter, the subject changed quickly

Despite her focus pervading thickly

To inside her unyielding cognizance

That hardly ever dimmed when given the chance.