There was a woman 
Who lived her gift fully
Whose fingerprints on the world
Helped to create the picture
Of light
Holding one sweet edge in place.

Whose breath 
Still brushes up against my heart
Though she
Herself
No longer breathes. 

There was a woman
Who did not let 
The voices of disdain
Stop her gift 
Even when her own doubts 
Too often echoed 
Those false frames.

She gifted her presence
Flaws and all.

There was a woman 
Who gratefully accepted 
The gifts of a broken world 
And counted them sufficient 
To sustain the fillagree 
Of glistening life
For just a while.

Counting her own brokenness 
Enough to offer 
In return

A reedy pipe 
With holes enough
To let the tune.
Sing through. 

This is the anniversary of my mother’s death. She would have made it to 100 had she lived two more years but 98 was quite enough for her and she left us with a wink and a smile. The photo is my own.