She sits in the parlor of her small-town home,
widowed and alone
knitting a sweater for herself
she has nobody else, no pictures of grandkids on her
bedroom shelf

Flash forward to a Sunday night
she sleeps in the peace, everything seems alright
A storm outside rages and
lightening, it strikes
the wood front door and
sparks a fire so bright

Across the house the flames crawl,
leaving a trail of
blackened walls and
smoke filled halls.

Into her bedroom they crept
As she watched them come, not a single tear she wept
In fact, a smile on her face
she takes one last breath,
closes her eyes and…
accepts her death

Sunrise in the mornin'
sheds light on nothing more than
a pile of ashes forlorn
But from the remains, a new angel is born
for God's own hand had parted the skies,
ran the ashes through his fingers so,
like a phoenix she could rise
and divinely cross the land, on plumed wings she flies
from place to place and
keeps a guardian eye
on the friends and family that her life was denied.