W here shall this go, she wondered,
Holding up the Lilac frond,
Broken by the brush of a passing Deer.
It was too beautiful to lie unhallowed
It needed a place to be held
It needed a home.
Conjoined and beckoning
Like a waiting hand
Called to her own
And she placed the Lilac there.
With arcs of last year’s blades of grass
Garnishing the woody palm,
With row after row of brown and green,
She entwined circles of dainty twigs
With the tenderness of a mother Bird
And softened the deepening cup with
Nature’s mossy down.
A Robin’s throaty greeting
Broke through the Lilac’s crown
Flying to the branch above,
She landed, tilted her head
And smiling at the Woman,
Eye met eye in understanding.
We have done this before
In many places
Weaving lives into Life
In service to
by Gay Bradshaw
~ Dedicated to Tommy ~
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