Serving to a Fault,
Defaulting to Service.
A life spent striving to be spent
Poured out as an offering.
A farm girl caught in a city life,
Primal simplicity wasted not
On the severed souls she helped.
O, that we too could find simpleness.
That we have,
In the picture of love among us,
Like the servant farmer before her,
The daughter’s incense rises above.
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Happy 60th birthday, Mom. I hope the poem says it all. I just wish I had not been inspired at two in the morning. 🙂
Me likey?!@
Hey Gurn. I always thought your name was spelled Gern? Did you change it for some reason, some cultural spelling thing because people kept spelling it wrong? Not that I knew you all that well, anyway, since you were even older than my brothers, so I could easily have forgotten that. Regardless, glad you stopped by.