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She flashed, piercing, upon the screen and I,
though fastened in my suit and steeled 
to speak apostasy,  
stood riddled, my notes a sudden blur.  
Posing after the War, she beamed outward joy.
Unbound by family ties, her beauty and bright eyes 
bore worlds of possibility,
and sank me in my grief.

She would not abide the godless vision 
about to be her tribute, but would accept 
the burden it imposed.  We had that understanding, 
even as I questioned faith that long ago solidified,
forming the foundation of her life.  Today those Irish eyes 
were less forgiving of the way I blubbered 
through my speech, unable 
to keep my head above the waters. 

I told the story of my garden:
how long before spring, yellow daffodils rise 
from their winter sleep, 
and continued, in spite of sibling prayers, 
with nature’s parade, 
from microbe multitudes making good the earth
to pink blossoms on a cherry tree, 
from spring orgy to the oranges and reds of a fall denouement.   
The story ended with the winter solstice, shrouded
in stillness, bereft of trumpets and grey, only darkness 
on a frozen stage.  From nurturing Mother nature turns
indifferent to our suffering. 

That death follows life is only natural,
I said, though the dying may be harsh and cruel, 
as when parade gives way to predator and prey. 
Having risen from the waters, we alone reflect 
upon them and judge the balance nature found 
before disturbing it with progress.   

She gave up countless worlds 
to raise nine children.  Though penniless
at times,  she kept her smile on her sleeve
to show that she was happy and content, 
and loved us in the endless chores.
 
Now frozen in memory her bright eyes plead 
against visions of shroud and stage
that we who remain will trouble the water,
moved to ease the suffering of others 
by the best in our nature.
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