She is a
matriarch who
sits a bit
aside;
She does not
scorn, nor does
she seek a
social place.
She never knew a
fear. Her
heritage and
life
And such serene
security
possesses her.
Her heart is
open to the
poor, the
strange, the
lost.
Her steps full
often lead her
to the church
and school;
Her body bends
in prayer with
all her young
and old.
Sometimes in
gayety she
glides in dance
or play.
She burns the
midnight oil in
search of basic
truth,
And rises at the
break of day to
sweat and toil.
No one is great
to her, no one
too small to
note.
Her children
bring their
willows and
their laurels
home;
She calls the
family to weep
or celebrate.
One son has
reached the
highest post the
nation holds;
She spread her
banquet table
with her best,
brought forth
Her drum, but it
was in the quiet
twilight hour
When home and
family held him,
she liked him
best;
To her he is her
son, a solemn
boy.
The diadem she
wears with grace
is godliness;
The diamond on
her hand is
service to
mankind.
--Susan C.
Chiles. |
