Mother Was Not a Shrinking Violet

Mother was not a shrinking violet
As she worked beside the men
And how she could play the violin
Which we asked her to quite often

I can still see her in the garden
With a trowel and her apron
Toiling where the ground did harden
Awaiting first blooms to happen

Pray that others use her cans
And sew much with her threads
Let flutter on each face her fans
Midst kneeding dough to make her breads

Pray that our memories of her
Not wither away like a flower
To all she had so much to offer
That just to think of her does empower