Beth Ann Orton

Her memory is a garden, evergreen and vast,

Where every petal whispers of a love built to last.

She saw the soul of a rose in the blush of morning light,

And found the heart of the stars in the jasmine of the night.

The snapdragons, vibrant, mirrored her laughter and her mirth,

And the gentle, nodding lilies, her quiet, humble worth.

She'd speak in silent language to the iris, bold and blue,

And the sunflower's devotion was a reflection of her too.

She taught us how to cherish every stem and every leaf,

To find strength in the springtime, and solace in our grief.

For in a fragile blossom, she saw life's fleeting art,

And tended to her friendships with a florist's gentle heart.

Though the winter winds may whisper, and the world may feel the chill,

Her spirit, like the crocus, will awaken on the hill.

She hasn't truly left us, just moved to a brighter ground,

Where everlasting gardens are forever to be found.

For in every bloom that opens, in the sun-kissed morning dew,

Is a vibrant, living tribute to a woman we once knew.

Her love, a constant springtime, a presence sweet and deep,

A garden in our memories that our hearts will always keep.