Frozen, bowed in tearless care;
since the flowers were fresh upon my grave, my angel has been there.
Did he comfort my father and my mother, hands forever clasped in solid prayer?
Did he see every widow
and every passing hearse?
So many stark white stones
as 1916 only got so much worse;
did he weep then for the violence
by which humanity is cursed?
As the elderly were laid to rest
did he acknowledge them
with a respectful nod?
Those tired, world-weary souls
gladdened to meet their God.
Could he love those
in modest pauper’s graves,
unmarked by sentiments
as they lie bare feet unshod?
Does he watch
the young men on the bench
laughing as they drink,
does he smile for the company
whatever does he think?
Cigarette butts, crushed cans,
half empty bottles clink.
Shall I rise up
with my stony angel
that the stars may kiss my head;
through wet grass and
slumbering bones be led,
or does the earth weigh too heavy
on my cold eternal bed?
K McCone Usher
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