Mary Margaret 1973

My sister Mary grew up quick,
The year my mother died.

She never felt the pitter-pat of school days
Like a gentle rain.

No prom jitters made her anticipate,
With whom to dance,
In whose embrace.

Now her tears are not for sorrow,
But for the life that’s still to follow.

To love someone we first must know,
The love we share
Can bloom and grow.