The good news is
after a miserable illness,
becoming old,
she was dead.
The tide is out.
Here and there in the tide pools
are her belongings.
She was a beautiful child.
A pretty woman.
There was nothing profound in her life
except the miracle of life itself.
She tried the best she could
to find happiness.
To be complete in some fashion.
As lives go, less hits than misses.
I always harbored a certain pity for her.
She was too young for life.
Had she been clever
she could have had roses.
As it was she lived with relatives.
Innocent and tattered she went to sleep,
a blessed rest.
For the first time I wanted to cry,
for an injustice done to her
that no one was guilty of.