Her Prayer

She brings the new day’s lovely offering of her garden’s fresh, delicate flowers, so grateful for the slight and menial task to fill her endlessly lonely hours. Several times a day she meditates as she daringly asks the reason why her beautiful, beloved and only son much before his time, was chosen to die. She takes up her pen with a sure intent before they will have had a chance to roam, to capture the fluttering, drifting words, shaping them into a glorious poem. Taking the parchment filled with inspired thoughts She lays it along with her heart, on the shrine. Praying, she says these humbling words. “Divine Lord, not my will be done, but thine.