The poems I wrote (some published) still survive
in a box in a land I never thought to see,
and did not, dying young, tuberculosis,
after years on that cold sanatorium porch
sustained by fever and the reverend’s love.
He was a fine husband, well spoken, and
our children delighted me daily with their notes
they brought me as they learned to write,
and with the tales they told me, their eyes large
with sights they brought out to my porch to share.