Easter Sunday

Easter Sunday

All the sainted are in church but I 

I have gone again 
to a holier place
where 
they speak not,
or laugh,
or cry

Let me enter these hallowed grounds

this Easter Sunday

the wind stirs the solemn stillness

and only birds are heard 
to chirp and sing

while grass and trees 
now grow about the headstone

for days on end no one has come

to gaze upon the cracked and fallen stones

and say a prayer for the dead

and read a name or two of those

whose brief lives now come and gone

too quickly, once loved, now forgotten

by all but me

And thee,

if thee, should reads these lines

and feeling curiosity

should seek a Sunday morn

to find a cemetery

down a dusty country road

where a buried child lies

long gone are this child’s kindred souls

will thee, like me wonder

did the mother cry?

and father too?

to lose one so young

in the innocence of youth

Proud parents once brought to tears

parents who were farmers

and sowed their seed in the earth

knowing that bird and drought

would take some,

but not these

not their own

before they were grown

Yet, their faith forbade

a somber thought

‘tis Easter Sunday

the Lord commanded

that one day

their child would rise

to once again laugh and cry