in the dry yellow rolling hills of wine county
where crickets and cicada sing
sweat and memories guided new creation
a place for her spirit to rest
all gathered on homemade pews
strong stones and brilliant quartz the focal point
through cracked voices, stories erupted
they filled tin buckets with their grief
listened to the sound hit the bottom so softly
found a whisper of rhythm
linked arms and danced with sorrow
in a place of peaceful remembrance
those moments her nymph spirit was holding all there
she was the sky full of stars on that dark night
the electric energy in the air
with hands clasp tight
a united silence for the
celebration of her life
and a painful goodbye