Mary, you are the bird inside the hand
Of St. Francis in the garden where he stands.
Handwriting, a birth mark, and a quilt,
Mother to my mother and to me. And to me.
Mary, you are the mason jars in spring,
The kitchen with the view across a hill.
First memory is a Bible verse in song,
The organ while my family sings along. We sing along.
And on the calendar when I leave
A little note for you, so you see
When I'm gone, I never go too far.
Your heart is my heart,
Your blood, my blood.
When I'm gone, I never get too far.