A poem by Beverly Stock.
© Sandra Cunningham | Dreamstime.com
The shifting shadows above the grave,
The grass growing toward the light,
The massive trees tall and brave
Shades headstones in the moon’s twilight.
The swelling of the bird’s raucous call,
The golden gleam of daffodils,
The wind sounds shrill every fall,
As breeze gives the grave a hearty chill.
The lily laying down her head
Cries, “Why is there sting, o death?”
As snowflakes start to build and spread,
A spirit draws a solemn breath.
Each evening tide the whole world brings,
Spirit’s anthem sounds true and strong,
Below the grave, one waits to sing,
And recite their resurrection song.