Four different voices raised to sing
Four little chicks who grew to be
four women, bright and free.
I think it plain no Mother Hen
could hatch out such as these,
nor any grey-plumed Mockingbird
who huddles in the trees.
When the world had turned to ashes
you rose up from its pyre;
so proud and brave, and beautiful,
with wings of dream and fire.
Dear Phoenix send your heart with me,
your little Turtledove,
as off I fly to build my nest
and fill it full of love.
Your strong and hopeful love.
Despite being the eldest, I was the last of the Post girls to leave home; and I thought it would be fitting to write the last poem for my Mom. It took almost a year to get it just right. Luckily, I had a long engagement. ^-^