Long ago, my mother sought to teach a shirt to iron itself. At first, it took offense that she would think it had wrinkles. But

they have come like warriors an army blackening the land wheat and barley vineyards devouring every leaf and branch until barren withered like the fig

Fall fountains of sun brimming Bronze leaves burning In summer’s dying light But not yet Her aged hands hold on For one more day In

His hands resting on his bended knee Remember Pounding the gavel that justice be done Throwing the ball to a little one Clasping others when

Flame of far celestial fire, lighting every high desire, promised gift of Christ’s ascending, still a heavenly flame descending on each soul with Spirit gifting,

I have known enough saints to know they fall just like the rest of us. They fail to see the mud globbed on their feet

She was one who chose the best, her Lord, and blessed the children with Him. For me she was my gray Rose from God, teaching

Sword mistress who taught me to hold my blade Always ready for defense or offense. Sword mistress with weakening arm and weakening eyes. Sword mistress