She found joy in little things,
Things that made her heart sing;
Bird songs in the morning
First crocus in the spring.
The white clouds floating over
Were pictures to her eyes;
She found the color of her days
In the blue of summer skies.
She loved firelight in winter
Loved the wind upon a hill;
She wished upon an evening star
When the night was still.
And when we'd walk, in bygone years,
She'd take me by the hand,
And tell me of these joys of hers
And now I understand.
—Hildreth L. Patch