garden/Poetry/Madame Martha.md

Madame Martha had eight years before me blown away.
Words scattered on Waco winds as posthumous wings, and with life,
ceaseless. They fell like snow on two tonsured heads, hovering
and near crashing over family found, her white-covered name.
"Hi, mom!" dripped and became frost, and that was when I knew -
you and I were always the same.