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Mother’s Day 1990

 


On sun kissed hill atop the tumbled town
her gilded name the polished stone adorns.
That will not fade, in granite nor in mind
though time in passing fill that gentle lawn.

Her voice is in the rain and springtime wind,
her face among the shadows of the trees,
her sparkling eyes among the dancing waves
whose summer promise took her by the hand.

No more the golden summer sun for her,
no more her caring touch for you and I,
but all the happy years she gave so free
we carry in our hearts, until we die.

 

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