Martha
by Heidi Heaton
August 17, 1907.
A life began that day.
Now three simple facts are left of her...her birth, her death, her name.
The sun’s fingers crawl over my skin, while the breeze tousles my hair,
I ponder at this sleek, cold stone and the significance it bares.
White flowers with tips dipped in pink sit delicately by this grave,
Fabric petals of permanence beside old bones of decay.
Does family often come to visit or are there any left?
What legacy did Martha leave to separate her from the rest?
A tombstone, average height, sits stoically in moist, shaven grass,
No distinctive qualities, just tangibly marking the past.
Visitors can only muse at the lives of those beneath the dirt.
But how, in truth, can a stone convey all of the human life’s worth?
The sun’s warmth has seeped into my skin; the soft breeze has left the air,
While peaceful quiet absorbs my thoughts of a life still unclear.
Country roads wind gracefully over hills rolling out towards the sun,
And though her body lies here, her journey has just only begun.
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