Volume VI, No. 2, Winter 1978
by Lea Ann Anderson, Photography by Mary Schmalstig
I walk along in a mysterious place
of death and people at rest.
I ask for meanings
of many things,
like why they lie on this crest.
An unusual thing stands tall and proud,
a tree that was planted has grown--
a living memorial
to a person's burial,
but now it covers his stone.
Things like this, strange and eerie,
stand out before my eyes.
The people dead
with no future ahead,
are a mystery and questions arise.
Why did they die? What untimely cause
has put them here in the ground?
Did they have a good life,
happiness or strife?
Do they know that I am around?
A lonely marker guards a child.
To die so young isn't fair.
"You're only three.
How can this be?"
I ask as if someone was there.
The people here have been buried for
Can their lives and influence last?
The laughter and tears,
their hopes and fears,
are now only parts of the past.
Why don't they rise up out of their
to guide the rest of my time?
For wisdom they've found
from years in the ground,
but the secrets they keep can't be
Then I realize that I, too, must die
before my questions are answered.
Though they seem so near,
the truth is, I fear,
not one will be my shepherd.
Yet standing here among immortals,
I feel it's not far away,
when "to a bright home
where grief cannot come,"
is where I'll go to stay.
Copyright © 1981 BITTERSWEET, INC.
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