Some Flowers Open Only To God

After riding horseback all day, It must have felt like the horse Had become an extra, inseparable limb- Sleeping by the campfire, did Joan Dream she was yet astride the steed; Wearing her specially- made armor, Declaring war, raising havoc, Unyielding, but with no visible support. Did she pace in the dark, restless hours Searching for the comforting voices The inspiring voices of direction, that alone she paid heed? In the waking hours, she was surrounded By endless eyes; questioning, doubting, Measuring her, at times finding her less than the imagined, Conquering heroine of familiar fable. For certain she was missing her home And loved ones, and her quiet spot There in the midst of the family The little church of stones, the cradle of her resolve. But most of all, there was the Light- That Light she followed and it Warmed her from the inside out, And led her thru pain, fatigue, and abandonment And her Voices adjured her, not to be afraid, that She was in the midst of something much greater Something that would not be forgotten, even if she was- It would become mother, father, beloved, past, present, future: Did she give thanks in the early dawn For the one thing that was always hers alone- Did she ever wonder, why me? As the sun rose yet again, she went inexorably forward- Not faint of heart, the flower of France. Immolated at the last, her fiercely brave existence Left not a trace behind to tell: Here, I tarried; here I knelt to prayer; Here, the very dust of my body that lived once, Even as you are living now; Do not imagine my life was worth less to me then Than yours is to you now. At the end did that Light embrace her gently, At the end of her lonely watch? Some flowers open only to god.