mother daughter poem

a little peach in the orchard grew
he came and took me by the hand
there are three ways in which men take
when the hours of day are numbered
sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea
since i have felt the sense of death
beside a stricken field
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
as a white candle
up from the south at break of day
there's one that i once loved so much