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  The Petunia in the onion patch
The Rose without the thorn,
My sister Joyce has been that way
From the day that she was born.
The apple of my father's eye
The re-incarnation of our Mother,
And as she grew and blossomed forth
The pride of every brother.
 
  For she is tall and slim and fair,
With the beauty of the dawn,
Her eyes are green and sparkle
Like fresh dew upon the lawn.
Her smile lights up her countenance
And puts one at one's ease,
Her manner can be impish
And she has a tendency to tease.
 
  The aureola that encompasses her
Is like St. Elmo's fire,
Dancing here and dancing there,
A flirtation filled with desire.
Yet innocence and acceptance
Pervades the very air
And every act that she performs
Is with tender loving care.
 
  Her main beauty is within her
Deep within her soul
It manifests in Motherhood
For now that is her role.
Not only for her offspring
But for her brothers one to five,
For she reminds us of our Mother,
When our Mother was alive.
 
  Trauma is no stranger
In this young lady's life
She's fought battles single handed
And succeeded over strife.
She has triumphed over adversity,
Suffered blows she'd had to take
She has faced this as a Mother would
For her children's sake.
 
  Such battles always leave a scar
That none of us can see
What heals these wounds is the return of love
The love of you and me.
Please don't wait to offer,
The love that is in your heart
For it's difficult to express that love
When you are miles apart.
 
  She has trod the path of lonliness
With doubt throbbing in her head,
She knows the pain of heartache
And the chill of an empty bed.
Unless you have experienced it
You cannot contemplate the pain
Of memories, of the anguish,
Rehashed time and time again.
 
 

Reach out, embrace this lady
Let her know you love and care
For she has qualities that we all admire,
Such qualities are rare.
My Petunia in the onion patch
My Rose without the thorn,
My sister Joyce has been that way
From the day that she was born.

20/3/90

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Copyright 2005 David Burt , all rights reserved
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