March 25, 2015 (I was 70)
The remains of my mother were buried today
When he became the rose she became the brier
His heart blossomed her skin toughened
When petals fell she preserved the fragrance
in the very root of her yearning soul
Intemperate times strengthened the thorn
Attempts to wrest her hold on memory
met by stinging barbs of comparison
until after years no similes were needed
staunch years brittle and worn
Leafless sixty-four springs later she rests
next to him with so much to tell
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