I found the wild azaleas growing pink as cheeks hot-flushed in fever from a cold. I drew the water for my mother’s drink and placed the petals in a vase of gold. I saw her shaking hands turn pale and dry and move along the rim of china vase, and then extend just as in days gone by to mine. No one can fill my mother’s place. Please do not bring to me your roses red nor wipe away my tears that fall in sheets to cover her new cemetery bed. In Heaven she now walks on golden streets while I go down a dark and dusty trail, in search of pink azaleas for my pail.
I walked down a worn trail at end of day as darkness spread long, graceful shadows slowly upon the valley of green. I listened to sweet call of quail serenading its mate in meadow where once my love had sung a song to me.