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I ran with white ponies in green clover fields,
The sting of the sun on the back of my neck --
The delicate scent of the sun-warmed clover,
The meadowlark singing over and over
His bursting bubbles of melody --
And I was young and free.

Now miles of black asphalt have covered the bones
Of all the white ponies and green clover fields;
The songbird is gone, there's a stench in the air
Of exhaust fumes, people, of filth and decay.
A brownish pall dims and poisons the day --
But green fields and ponies are still all I see.


Flowers were her great delight;
She cared for them always.
Planting, feeding, watering,
She nurtured flowers all her days.

When age and illness came to her
This lady was so very wise --
She could no longer care for them,
But loved them with her eyes.


How strange it is that she has lived so long --
One hundred years this last St. Patrick's Day,
With mind and body for the most part still intact,
She has served her God, lived well and nothing lacked.

Her mother's cousin raised her, her father's second wife,
Since at their birth her mother and her twin
Gave up their lives to give her strength and life.
Was it required that they sacrifice
Their lives that her might be so long?
If so, would she not feel that it was wrong?

But the ways of God are past all understanding;
For now she is denied that which she most desires,
To see at last the three who gave their lives
That she might live more fully in this world --
Her mother, brother and her risen Lord.


Oh, drat!  I dropped the butter!
Forgive the words I utter.
My husband sits, immersed --
In a TV program, I swear the worst!

We fumble and stumble,
Our senses betray us.
He sits and daydreams,
I work and I fuss.

If nothing prevents it,
We'll live 'til tomorrow
And the day after that,
In spite of our sorrow.

We go on and on --
This is living?  I ask;
He goes on sitting,
I return to my task.

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