The Crucible Of Love By Cashin

In ninety-eight, my dearest aunt was lost,
to cancer's grip, her life a heavy toll.
She came to us; my mother cared for her . . .
six months . . . they said, but three months were a haze.
Chemo stole her hair, left skin dark, frail, scaly.
We laughed and cried, our bond a tender path.
She found true peace where dreams and silence mix
and hardships forge steel, and stars are tempered.
Do you recall the love that never ends,
that the crucible of love, anytime,
comes down to all the meanings of this word
"crucible," that it is the force around
us all, commonly to be our soul's
trial by fire, or an inferno so fierce?