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Dorothea, was that truly her name?
 Does it matter after all these years
 so long passed the heartache of a child's tears?

This tale remembered from a lifetime that unwinds
 once forgotten and lost without reason or rhyme
 instilled the promise of every gift of God most sublime.

When I was a child, myself, the very gift of God,
 the sisters at the children's home   
 wore floor-length clothes and seemed less people, more like clones;
a parade of habits veiled dark brown and indigo black
 swept the floors where footsteps echoed and clacked
 and as time passed, we learned parents never come back;

most names of children and nuns alike were not heard or said
 by little children hiding beneath the covers of their beds
 in dormitories of the orphanage where innocence was often left;
unwanted little faces washed clean in salted tears
 shaking each to their bones without dreams and only fears
 of the nuns who frowned as they drew closer to the tiny dears;

there was one nun, a sister if you please, who on occasion, maybe two
 wore a smile of ease and seemed kind and caring too
 knowing that little children need their hopes constantly renewed;

Sister Mary Dorothea, one, singular gift of God giving love to each child
 often embracing the small, the meek, the wild and the mild
 with words of love, comfort, motherly promises to free them from exile;
she sailed above the wooden floors, lilting to share her soft prayer
 angelic in her gliding approach to express her deepest care
 and safe and secure, she guided children through all they endured there.

One demonstrative expression of God's gift of everlasting love
 for the promise of the future yet to come from heaven above.







Inspired by both memory and Julia Ward's contest for the nun - Dorothea,
names may have been changed to protect the innocent.
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