Violet, like the flower of her name,

Shy, sweet and lovely in purple shade

Perceiving always the beauty around her

With a child like wonder that never fades.


Sunsets of pink and orange pastels

Fill her heart with glee,

Red cardinals at the feeder

Or sparkling dew drops on a tree.


She is stronger than a spiders web,

And fragile as a butterfly’s wing.

The snows of winter will soon be gone,

Her tired eyes have turned toward spring.


Anticipating robins

And yellow daffodils,

Waiting for tulips to appear

Like confetti on green hills.


And she is waiting for the Angel

To whisper softly, “this is the hour.”

Our world will be less beautiful,

But heaven will have gained a flower.


By Dorothy I. McCarty Ó2001

For my mom