On the Death of Esther Jackson, My Mother
There was a rock, a big and mighty rock
And little boys hang on it like toddlers to a frock
There was a rock immovable in the sun
And haughty winds blew on it, and effect they had none
And there was rain and there was sweat
That poured from its mighty brow, and the sun set
Beyond it, the rock was like a plow, the way birds came
To feed in its contented niche and dance their little game
There was a rock, bold, independent, strong
Trampled by the fickle forces with egos never wrong
It stood its tests, and gave its all to all
But could not go beyond a hundred years of time when heaven called
I weep for my rock, I weep without a rest
My rock is gone, the signpost in my wilderness
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