DEAR, dear Daisy,

Lazarus could not ask

For more. Barely dead

Then resurrected by a

Blast of joyous sound –

Foot-stomping,

Hand-clapping,

Butt-wiggling –

Peals of joyous sound.

Women - mostly -

Dressed more for Sunday

Strutting than for serious

Mourning Prayer -

Tight shinny dresses

Hugging broad butts.

Heads topped

By wide brimmed

Hats - a tottering ensemble

Perched on spiked heels –

Struts not meant to

Underpin anything

So serious as life.

No one ever

Walked to Selma

With the King in any

Outfit made like this.

Yet there we were,

Praise God,

To send you off

So you could reap

Your hard-earned

Just reward.

Praise God indeed!

“We're all just passing

Through,” Pastor said.

“Our souls lie not

In flesh that others

See, but in parts

That lie deep

Within the dust.”

“A lily's soul

Rests not in its flower

But in its root -

The unseen part

From which, each Spring

Uncoils its flower.

Life rests not

Within the lily's flower

But in its root.”

Surely, Daisy,

Though we saw you

Every working day,

We never saw

The root from

Which you sprang.

Just before we

Loosed you from the church

To your pine clad resting place,

I thought Pastor's voice

Would fragment into shards

Of religious passion.

Instead, combo picked up

Pastor's Holy Thread.

The congregation rose

To sing and we sent you

Heaven bound on shafts

Of glorious sound.

It was,

Dear Daisy,

A most fitting tribute.

I am sure you would

Be pleased.