I happily plead guilty to an abiding sentimentality.
Where these youngest have grown old
In a small wooded hill all their own,
Rooted deep as the willows and oaks,
If no longer in anyone's memory.
How hauntingly hallowed these tiny
Plots of earth and childish markers,
The names and dates I have to bend
To read, kneeling here where no one
Has come to mourn in my lifetime.
Above one is a tear-stained face
Looking down, her expression faded
In the ninety years of watching over
This child, her guardian angel, earth-
Bound forever with broken wings.
I look at the flowers I had brought
For this day, hear a better reason
And lay them where the angel leans,
The only flowers not etched in stone.
The angel has my father's smile.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 558 times
Written on 2011-01-13 at 16:17
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Father's Day
The deepest part of the cemeteryWhere these youngest have grown old
In a small wooded hill all their own,
Rooted deep as the willows and oaks,
If no longer in anyone's memory.
How hauntingly hallowed these tiny
Plots of earth and childish markers,
The names and dates I have to bend
To read, kneeling here where no one
Has come to mourn in my lifetime.
Above one is a tear-stained face
Looking down, her expression faded
In the ninety years of watching over
This child, her guardian angel, earth-
Bound forever with broken wings.
I look at the flowers I had brought
For this day, hear a better reason
And lay them where the angel leans,
The only flowers not etched in stone.
The angel has my father's smile.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 558 times
Written on 2011-01-13 at 16:17
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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