PAT WELLBURN

IONA ABBEY, SCOTLAND

JUNE, 2003

Soft white pincurls framed her sweet face,
where a smile broke through like a sunrise;
a smile like the thousands she'd generously blessed
on a full lifetime of family and friends.

In an instant, she spoke her name, Pat;

seemed more like a Violet or Camellia to me,
but in a deeper way, its briefness fit,
no pretense or filler, just cut to the core.

We spoke of prayer and favorite things.
Soon Pat shared the story of a workman,

arriving all gruff and about his business,

she thought, until he entered her garden.

Beauty is not content to stay a stranger,
and so she introduced her companions.
The workman stooped over and spoke to a Rose,
"How can one look at a flower and not believe in God?"

Pat wasn't present as she finished her story,

she'd returned to that precious memory

when truth paid a visit in overalls and joined beauty

in a turn on her garden dance floor.