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.