She was the beauty of the South;
Now a spring equinox to shine.
      It was all hers:
The cows grazing in the distance,
     The old black tools of toiled trouble.

Her grace a twang from her dear mouth,
The love of Christ was hers and mine.
     Flowers to burrs -
Lord! - she was more than existence…
Her purpose was sure and humble.

Hers are the Heavens to make runs;
Her wings expanding of fine lace.
    Sun shining so?
Shine at the command of God’s word,
Fly… fly high beautiful spirit!

Fly high to leave behind your sons,
Never to forget your dear grace.
   For this I know:
Of her kind last words I have heard,
She told me to come back and visit…