How late in life,
Did she begin, to paint?
I see them now,
She is gone.
Never an artist,
Yet a painter.
As never a poet,
Yet a writer, am I.
Did they bring her joy?
I have them now,
She is gone.
Will my children have my poems,
When gone I am?
To bring to bring them, joy?
This then Christmas mourn,
then past.
This then many years,
To see the joy
Then to return
This then year's of sorrow,
Then be gone.
The cancer took its toll.
Never I thought the joy,
Could, return.
Now the cure, then to, the joy.
The sorrow, now, no more.
This then saught, but not believed.
Then to us now, be grateful for,
Here, then still ...
