I still hear her voice
Stronger than seemingly possible
From such a small frame
Never in doubt
With such certainty
Picking the perfect lines
Held cold
In mental storage
Rolling from her lips
With such reverence
As if the poet
Whispered them
In her ear
A secret
Between the bard and her
Such wonder of memory
She defying
The limits of age
Reciting with no hesitation
No break in cadence
Such delight
Those verses are mine now
The cold of the woods
The glory of the daffodil
The inevitability
Of death
A head
Bloody but unbowed
They are mine
But with all my will
Still unable to freely give
The legacy; the beauty
She passed to me
And that good
Will end
With my stilled tongue
Oh, for apostles
Acolytes to carry the torch
To another generation
Words I fear
Will be buried
With the few
Who heard
Her siren song
