adoptedwriter

Sacred

Silent, sleeping meadow

Weathered, creaky gates welcome visitors

Unmown grass, oaks, poplars, and maples frame the field

July sun beats down from above

Breeze is slight

Large and small stones dot the land

Some tall and proud

Some crumbled and weathered

lichen drooling down the sides

Telling stories

Of beginnings and ends

We fill in missing story gaps with imaginings or hearsay

“Sacred”

Unknown occupants young and old call out in voiceless messages:

“Sacred”.

Weary fathers, young mothers, angel babies, the aged, soldiers, immigrants, pioneers who foraged and sacrificed for opportunity

They all have something to say

Lessons, legends lamentations

Of histories both personal and universal

“Sacred”

They are us; we are them.

They gave; we take

They built; we improve

They labored; we progress

They fought; we still fight

They died; we carry on

Ancestors

What would they think of us now?

“Sacred”

https://adoptedwriter.dreamwidth.org/file/200x200/10781.jpg

(If this is hard to see, the headstone belongs to one of my husband's ancestors, Amos Strickland. He died at age 9. The top reads, "Sacred".
The 2 stones in the background are also ancestors. We went grave-hunting on July 4th!