There sits still a tomb in a quiet place,
A lark carved in dust, an observant face.
And every week she is flowered by her children:
A daughter and a son.
And the daughter is the Saint of the Dry Charm,
And the son is the Saint of the Rubber Arm.
And they inherited a modest home where they turn the page.
Through the Summer will grow, through the Fall they will store so
In the Winter they can drink and endure, and in the Spring they will plant more.
And the daughter is the Saint of the Hard Earned Day,
And he is the Saint of the Rolling Hay.
But they inherited a quiet womb,
And gentle turns the page.
The base of the hearth, where their ashes spilled
Shines in the light of the morning still.
And every week they are left alone
And no one turns the page.
And she was the Saint of the Warm Laugh,
And he was the Saint of the Warm Hands.
And they passed their time in a quiet page
And left a corner folded.
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