Her life was no less lived for being small.
Dried seed blew free, grew higher when new-soiled;
Death’s scything arc did not erase it all.

Young woman past who heeded nuptial call,
Encased within a shrinking sphere she toiled,
Her life was no less lived for being small.

Her words’ kind cadence, scattered on the fall,
Formed searching roots that linked with minds, uncoiled;
Death’s scything arc did not erase it all.

Her hand’s work shielded tender head ‘gainst squall,
The head grew tall, a life’s work near unspoiled,
Her life was no less lived for being small.

Her hopeful gaze a silent, warning shawl,
An easing balm when agitation roiled,
Death’s scything arc did not erase it all.

Some other little lives now can recall
Her equanimity, when life’s plans are foiled.
Her life was no less lived for being small.
Death’s scything arc did not erase it all.