Leoto

‘Twas in a poor and shabby shelter

As fever chilled her bones

Amidst the July swelter

That Leoto died alone.

Not a penny to her name,

She lay for days on end.

What could be the blame

To be so harsh condemned?

Did she see the Reaper loom

In the muggy Memphis night,

And did she sense her doom

Before the morning light?

What transpired in 1914

In that other day and time?

I wondered what might have been,

And she lingered on my mind.

On this pleasant July summer

These many years away,

I, who never knew her

Sought to find her grave.

I found the rural churchyard

That held her last repose,

But nothing had endured

And so, I left a single rose.

I sense she knows I’ve been there

To dignify her passing

And knows that I wish her

God’s peace everlasting.

Copyright 2017 Ken Ragan