Sister— I see your love, a patient stone, Rubbed and worn by worshipful hands. A pragmatic beacon of the sun, Lighting the path from where it stands. You drew forth order of chaos, Harnessed time and tamed hinterlands. But now, you are set free. To love . . . practically. Your world has spun a new axis, A different sun, your faithful gone. You, alone, must shape a new form, A home, a rhythm, a wild song, Sculpting the stone of yesteryear, Into a shape where you belong. And now I pray for you to see A way to love . . . practically.
