In all of your 87 years,

Did your hair never seem to quite really go gray?



Lumpy and bulky in your,

often hand knit,

ubiquitous sweaters.


Kind and very good.

Often afraid,

Always prepared,

Never bored.



You could talk to anyone

about anything,

and frequently did.

Your laugh boomed,

Your hug swallowed,

Your eyes searched.



Inside of you

The six year old

waited and watched,

ever present.


Please find me to be,

as I find myself

a lover of people,

and of learning,

and of doing. 



He walks for you now,

Your blood inside him

Your very DNA

forming his structure. 

He walks like you too,

stomping, clumping,

through the house,

oblivious of his place in space,

Deep in thought,

and intent on the next DO-ing

As you so often were.



I smile when I see you,

In his shoulders,

his kind and searching eyes,

His curious questions,

asked of every stranger.



If this man,

the capable, wise and good one,

who shares my life,

were your only legacy,

That would be enough.

But you did that and so much more too.


Did we know you,

Did we see you,

As well as you deserved?

Of course not,

For you always directed us,

To something you thought

would be of greater interest.

But even now, 

It’s not too late,

for us to try again,

to see, to really see,


Miriam Dickey Pierce,

in all her glory.





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