Her lips were cerulean; a never melting frost.
The blue blossomed in the corners of those lips
As the white of snow played upon her relaxed face as delicate as moth wings.
The perfectly quaffed hair of an angel she laid in her coffin,
Her boat that would take her on a voyage to worlds beyond.
Reminiscent to the Lady of Shallot.
Her song had sung into those who knew her
In a clear voice that ran through one's soul
As clear as a bird yet soft as a breeze.
Woven with the themes of life,
In each of us she sung her breath, her spirit.
We now carry a part of her with us.
Her story becomes ours intertwining with time through love and remembrance.
She was a storyteller, cantadora,
medicine woman, wise sage,
The matriarch of our family.