A field of polished stones
cushioned in spring grass;
a blanket of renewal pulled
up snug against eternity.
These people are not mine.
But I am reminded of those
now gone; their fragile bones
lying quiet under Prairie corn
or under other stones - an age,
an ocean or a continent away.
In this garden, lush with memory,
the river of the grassy blanket runs
between the stones. These lives
have had their moment in the stream
of time —and now it’s ours.