Unbending, in the sense
that she was arthritic 
in both hands and hips.
And upright, in the sense
that she kept her secrets in the eye
between blasts of truth-telling,
leaving her free to work while others slept.
Yet resigned, in the end,
to a projection of life
on the television screen:
steeping slowly for silent hours
in memories incessant 
as the drizzling rain.
I loved her from the day she died. 

She was a sermon to an empty church.
She was an impromptu bunch of chrysanthemums.
She was an end to an unfair fight.
She was a mother burying a child.
She was a glass of sherry to the new year.
She was an old bible, full of voided words.