She couldn't hear them because she didn't

know what they were saying so she had

to learn more words for the same things

everything she saw and felt became more

than Italian, more than Spanish, more than

language at all, then she learned to sign.

All of this was so easy at six and seven

and all the feelings were the same, just

different shades of red and blue and green

of tears and hunger and longing, and shoes,

of growing up in the country, all part of

growing a heart with a mind being shaped.

By what she could do, what she would do

for others while watching her world become

bigger, more beautiful, more complex, by

watching people growing into her hands,

and then away, able to stand in the sun and

wind, to bend and become able to give back.

Even if it was just a smile returned,

a hand held until they could both let go.

She had a simple name, a common one,

A noun and a verb all at once: Rose

In one place she would blossom as

Her colors swirled red, and pink, yellow

and orange, until their spin brought them

all together to become the magnificence

of them all, all her goodness, all her work,

all her problems solved in many solutions.

Until her leaves and petals began to fall

Into her roots, shared and stored in one

Winter holding its breath to let her

glory bloom again in early spring.

and all that was Rose will grow again,

will share all that she was with a single

blossom, the simple blending of all colors

into the vibrant shimmer of White, the

shared glory of one woman rising, in all

of her volunteers, on their own with the

beauty of the rose within themselves,

constantly becoming better, while showing

the way to be like a simple child, needing to

grow up curiously, to be giving like the Rose.

In memoriam for Rose Pierce

(Feb. 8, 1922 to April 4, 2006)



By Diane P. Lando, Poet Laureate