I think about Mary, br The pieces of her story br As I know it: br Her childhood streets, br The neighborhood cherry tree br She used to climb, br It should have been for fun, br Not for badly needed nourishment, br But she survived, br By strength of will, br A poisoned family life br Of shuffled homes br And ever-changing schools br With her homework assignments missed. br br But Mary, did you allow yourself to cry? br Was that too much a luxury for a small girl? br Too much a luxury when your possessions br Were placed on the curbs of lonely streets br Where passersby didn’t know the children br Those possessions belonged to, br Their tattered clothes and tattered lives? br But Mary, you kept yourself alive br And somehow filled your heart with love br And created a better day br For everyone you touched: br Your husband and children, br Your baby brother br Who still has an injured heart, br And people like myself br Who gaze into your soul br Through the words you write.