Remembering he who walked dirt roads. <br />Mounted knolls to reach her house. By ways, <br />where heaps of fruits lay in ruins. Memories of <br />ashes to ashes and dust to dust. <br /> <br />Pains and sorrows gather tall, yet <br />she danced with sorrows, and all. <br />Moods bending and twisting, yet having a ball! <br />Lasting desire the only wallflower alone. <br /> <br />In her time, Momma's milk nurtured nine. <br />Springs sprung greens and fruits; the blazing <br />Summers ripened berries and plums; autumn's <br />Amber splendor signaled her work done. <br />Now winter renders cold and gloom. <br />No more seeds in spring, summers cold, autumn fell. <br />Now, harsh winter's gone but her venerableness lags on. <br /> <br />She marveled no more the vivid moon, nor <br />her smile as bright as the sun. <br />Joyce, her name and Joy passed away. <br />I Join this mournful dirge and wing with <br />the dove upon the morning cloud. <br /> <br />Her first, second, third, fourth and fifth, <br />sons were overcome by stark darkness <br />Though Momma's fruits perished outside her womb, <br />yet four aged- daughters left keeping the narrative alive. <br /> <br />I think this melancholy history is well worth reprising: <br />The melodic songs, lyrical poems, elegiac verses of <br />those once lived, and the four waiting <br />waiting for the roll of each dice...<br /><br />Almedia Knight Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dirge-26/
