She knew all of her flowers by name.
Her earthly temple, never lacking care—
Her place of worship—perished all the same
And buried underneath many a layer
Of dust it has returned to, sleeps. Alas!
Even her words—they too—someday shall pass.
Yet, there is comfort in the mortal world.
It eases grieving o’er a wilted bloom,
The transience of a poetic word,
Of beauty… There is comfort in the doom.
And maybe He (God knows)—He Who creates—
Recites her poems at the Pearly Gates.
Live for the Love of it,
Sasha A. Palmer (aka Happy)
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