APRIL 3, 2022


It is not that I hear their voices

when visiting Georgetown’s cemetery.

It is as though I see their auras,

feel their presence in ways not scary.

The boundless energy of a four year old

lying still there in her grave

has not been fully stifled.

Her essence angels save.

The baby boy under that tall pine

ever watches for his mom.

You sense his trepidation,

and back off until he is calm.

Most children in these beloved old sites

died long before their folks,

many who left for less harsh surroundings

carrying their grief beneath their cloaks.

The wind blows wickedly in those steep hills;

The air so often cold.

I imagine these little ones ‘sweet voices singing,

while their fathers searched for gold.

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