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