For many months they planned her birth, this child of whom they’d dreamed.
The baby’s bedroom tinted white, an orange blossom theme.
So delicate the blossoms Mother painted on the wall,
Some people swore that they were real, not artists’ strokes at all.
They named the baby “Blossom” and she was a charming child,
It seemed to them the room lit up each time their baby smiled.
In nineteen hundred twenty-one, she married Henry Hale.
The orange blossoms that she loved were woven through her veil.
Each window of the church that day held vases full of blooms,
And on each pew the blossoms spread their delicate perfumes.
The lovely home that Henry bought to give his lovely bride
Had fourteen hundred orange trees which grew on every side.
Not once did they grow weary of the fragrance of those blooms
Which filtered through the house each year, even the children’s rooms.
One day when they were all alone, he called her through the door.
‘Twas then he saw his aging wife who’d dropped there on the floor.
She lay inert in Henry’s arms while drawing her last breath,
Then with his lips upon her brow, felt her succumb to death.
The church was packed with well-wishers; each one held a bouquet
Of orange blossoms from her grove to brighten this sad day.
A big surprise awaited her at heaven’s pearly gate.
Beside her Savior, Mother stood with Dad so tall, sedate.
They each held orange blossoms from her groves she’d loved so long.
“You’ve picked the perfect welcome gift; I feel I now belong.”
At heaven’s wondrous wedding feast, (each bride in royal gown,)
One bride stood tall and proudly wore an orange blossom crown.
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