Sonnet 374

Her passing there was but a fond dismay
For those who loved her knew it was her time;
I paid respects though I was far away
Lost in another land, another rhyme.
She was both mentor and a precious friend;
The letter came to me a bit too late
And found me sitting with my pen in hand
While she was softly closing heaven’s gate;
Her worth to me? Why I may never know—
The gift of knowledge has no measured part,
That endless treasure that she did bestow
I spend in homage to her favored art;
And here inscribed in ink on paper white,
I yield another tribute to her light.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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