Oh, Susannah, resting in this quiet wooded place,
Pine needles, ferns, moss, and leaves
Are gentle ground as I walk into your sacred space.
Others on this Mother's Day sought out these two lonely graves,
Leaving Spring's emblems upon your arch-shaped stone
Where you and your child have slept as your farm returned to forest
And your first babe, motherless, finally full grown,
Remembered and passed on your memory, marking where you rest.
What is it like to be under the moon, the stars, the downy snow,
Blessed by walkers on this trail, who stop for just a while
To wonder why your grave is here, to never have a chance to know
The wife you were, nor the child who lived to see your smile?

These flowers change the rhythm of so much verdant green –
From those who stop to send you love amid your endless dream.

Pam Bourgeois
2003
© 2003, 2008

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