In loving memory of my aunt who first saw Jesus with her eyes on March 1st, 2015. 

Like water passing through your hands

and falling down again;

like a river flowing near

then streaming on again;

like chilly rainfall pouring down,

refreshing us again,

is this simple wooden box,

this mound of dirt, the graveside marker

dust to dust again.

–

We knew the playful teasing eyes

that laughed and loved again;

the hands that purchased food for friends

and cleaned it up again;

the voice that asked you how you were

and really cared—again,

is not inside this wooden box,

this mound of dirt, this graveside marker–

Dust. Just dust again.

–

All rivers pass on to the place

from which they came again;

some flowing strong like melting snow

some trickling in again;

but some come bursting o’er their banks

and rushing on again,

a work of God, a heavenly marker,

life to life again.