“It seems it should be lilac time,” he said of her
Who was his daughter; Who was my sister.
She who hated winter and loved the spring.
But during winter’s firm and bitter grasp she left us,
So that in the cold and dark of winter we recall this bleak day.
Not like Walt Whitman whose sorrow returned with ever returning spring,
Our sorrow returns in winter.
At spring, when lilacs bloom again, we can rejoice her journey is complete,
And remember her in a place
Radiant with the warmth and flame and beauty of God’s eternal presence.