THE GARDEN

 

Time stands still in

That granite garden

Etched in the hill.

Names and dates

Are carved in stone,

But those entombed

Lie there alone.

We wander by

The “stones” and urns

Wondering when

It will be our turn?

The cold wind blows

Across gray skies,

The mother shakes

While her baby cries.

There is no beginning,

There is no “end”, just

The deafening silence

Is your only friend.

Time has sent a calling card,

That this is home

For this lonely bard.