She planted violates with callused hands
and a summer and winter suntan.
Soft-spoken strength in every bloom.
I watch unsure if I would
ever grow a garden, or a voice
or a room to hold the gifts
she held plain.
It took forty years to see
the soil she turned
was also mine.
That I too, hold a poet’s flame,
and healing hands,
and roots like pine.
The mirror shifted
and there she was
not ahead, but within.
Mirror to My Soul by Heather Mirassou 
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