I wrote this poem in honour of my Great Grandmother.
On the plains of suffering grows a tree.
In the tree are the leaves of me.
Beneath the ground are the roots of your hurt.
But new growth comes from the grim dirt.
Only your ancestors can claim to know,
The origin of your family's woe.
The fruits have fallen on the ground.
This is your love; see what you found.
Every seed is yours to watch grow.
Now they stand tall on the meadow.
Flowers now bloom all year round.
This is the place you love to be around.
Suffering is how we grow when living.
Be at rest now, we loved your giving.