Poetry by JC Snyder

The day a bald eagle bent the top bows
Of the largest oak tree out back,
an American miracle itself,
I read Delores of Pasadena was gone.

Born a year after the Crash, 
Skinned-kneed she must have been
when planes left Martin’s with their heavy bombs,
Fifteen when the war ended cataclysmically,

38 in a Baltimore torn by color,
Past retirement when the century turned,
A life, I assume, of fierceness
Forged in the irons of a fiery world.

A charitable witty woman, I’m told,
driven to work in data 
and raise two sons to be good men
in a marriage of fifty rings.

I can see her making soup, a life of
Joy, heartache, inner richness,
Days like today of toast and eagles,
Coffee and obituaries, 

Chance meetings of life:
Delores, member of the Notable singing group, 
passionate gardener,
and avid NASCAR fan.

It will happen to us; there is no other way.
Our mystery distilled to a simpler essence:
a fast car careening through the turn
and two arms raised cheering.