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.