Graceful in the face of defeat
Stoic in the face of pain
Unashamed in the face of Pride
An umbrella against the pounding rain

A willow tree bending, unrelenting
bowing in the face of rage
A feather floating in the breeze
to softly touch the face of age

Her touch can soothe battle fever
Her look can hold back the tide
Her voice can sing in triumph or
softly hum as she attempts to hide

She sits alone on a hill of clover
and finds four leaves with every glance
She sits at the bottom until it is over
and takes odds against every chance

Her babies are the reason she breathes
Her man is the reason she would die
For her there is no in between
Without either she has no reason to try