She has the strength of iron,
Climbing up the walls of her life.
Clinging with each and every fingernail,
Thrown a thousand atrocities.
Each and every one she rose to their defiance,
Rearing three dickens in beggarly times.
One of which grew lame,
A thousand arrows being hurled every day.
Her husbands death left no pain,
Nor any infelicity or grief.
Autonomously she trudges through,
Rope bridges held high over colossal depths.
They vanish leaving flat easy paths,
That help the years fly past.
Grandchildren and great grandchildren alight,
There are tragedies, disgraces and uproar.
New family shames and errors,
With her strength of iron, she bustles on.
Pulling her life knit tight,
Wrapped and entwined with structure.
Witnessing tremendous generation transformation,
Her heart rips then heals with powers of twenty.
Loyalty survives in her blood so dear,
Dedication and passion for her beloveds.
All the while she cuts her own adversity,
Her chronic regular workday.
Wake, clean, cook, wash, clean, cook, sleep,
Eighty six years the same.
But still she stands so sweetly,
Tired but beholden.
Wise and twittery she prepares for no end,
Her threads un-bare and newly tight.
Lonely with wide soft arms,
She climbs the wall of life.
No longer with her nails so ridged,
She has the strength of iron.