This little volume of poems is written in memory of my mother, Faye Marilyn Stewart. When I first thought about writing it, I rejected the idea, not having mused in such a way for a good many years, and not withing to reduce her memory to a few pitiful verses. But then I changed my mind, reasoning that if I do not commit my thoughts to paper, they will eventually disappear, as I will. The paper, of course, will one day blow in the wind, and crumble back into the earth, but my thoughts will reach more people on paper than if I tell them face to face, because I don’t see that many people face to face anymore, sorry to say. With that in mind, I took up my pen (or rather, my “pentium”) and set my thoughts down for all the ages to ponder. I chose the theme of flowers, because my mother was an avid gardener, and I felt that I could best approach that in her which was dear to me by writing about that which was dear to her. Those of you who knew my mother, read it and weep. When your tears are dried (if ever they can be), I hope you will set about cultivating your own garden, which means, looking after the people who are dear to you.

This little volume of poems is written in memory of my mother, Faye Marilyn Stewart. When I first thought about writing it, I rejected the idea, not having mused in such a way for a good many years, and not withing to reduce her memory to a few pitiful verses. But then I changed my mind, reasoning that if I do not commit my thoughts to paper, they will eventually disappear, as I will. The paper, of course, will one day blow in the wind, and crumble back into the earth, but my thoughts will reach more people on paper than if I tell them face to face, because I don’t see that many people face to face anymore, sorry to say. With that in mind, I took up my pen (or rather, my “pentium”) and set my thoughts down for all the ages to ponder. I chose the theme of flowers, because my mother was an avid gardener, and I felt that I could best approach that in her which was dear to me by writing about that which was dear to her. Those of you who knew my mother, read it and weep. When your tears are dried (if ever they can be), I hope you will set about cultivating your own garden, which means, looking after the people who are dear to you.

This little volume of poems is written in memory of my mother, Faye Marilyn Stewart. When I first thought about writing it, I rejected the idea, not having mused in such a way for a good many years, and not withing to reduce her memory to a few pitiful verses. But then I changed my mind, reasoning that if I do not commit my thoughts to paper, they will eventually disappear, as I will. The paper, of course, will one day blow in the wind, and crumble back into the earth, but my thoughts will reach more people on paper than if I tell them face to face, because I don’t see that many people face to face anymore, sorry to say. With that in mind, I took up my pen (or rather, my “pentium”) and set my thoughts down for all the ages to ponder. I chose the theme of flowers, because my mother was an avid gardener, and I felt that I could best approach that in her which was dear to me by writing about that which was dear to her. Those of you who knew my mother, read it and weep. When your tears are dried (if ever they can be), I hope you will set about cultivating your own garden, which means, looking after the people who are dear to you.