Grave at the Quiet Bend
(For Grandma Kathy)
By Vernie Lynn DeMille
The fingers of shadow lengthen
Along the quiet bend
Of the road that runs from East to West
Beside the grave of a friend.
Gone are the crowds new to mourning,
Time has moved winter along;
The cold of the snow and of sorrow
Have fled with buds and birdsong.
The fields are tilled beside where you sleep,
The gold earth given way to dark brown.
Faith in a hopeful harvest
Lies buried in furrowed ground.
You would approve of this garden,
Where seeds grown of love lie still.
Where grieving hands placed in the soil
Their hopes, dreams, and wishes until-
A change in the seasons announces
That the Gardener is coming to tend
The seed that has grown, now immortal,
From that grave at the quiet bend.