Those who thought they knew her
swore my mother would never survive
as a widow with six children crammed
into a shack on a few acres of stony ground.

She proved them wrong by coaxing tendrils
of wispy garden plants from reluctant soil
to sustain us. When that did not suffice,
she toiled in neighbors’ fields until
cuts on her fingers bled red on the vines.

It was rumored that we would never amount
to much but seven-in-a-pew on Sundays
said otherwise. At home, she spoke of faith
and God’s word. She called us her angels
 with dusty wings.

Certainly she would lose her looks, becoming
as dry and listless as a prairie shadow, but
although the sun leached part of the blue
from her eyes and time betrayed her face,
her smile would always reveal an inner beauty.

She instilled in us the value
of honest toil, the integrity of promises kept,
and the virtue of unconditional love.
I thank her for giving me courage.
I praise her for making me strong.