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Apr. 10th, 2003 09:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
icepixieWhat do I do when I need to be writing research papers? I write poetry, of course.
Elegy on a small gravestone in Danville, Virginia
"Our Baby," it says, with no names or dates;
a little gray monument half-hidden in grass,
small like the child itself, sexless,
devoid of the proper ritual that makes passing easier—
"Our Baby," the chiseled words managing
to look mournful because of the absence
of others; perhaps there was no time
for a name that would encompass all the hopes for
"Our Baby," which now lies with its back in the grass,
staring up without sight at the sky,
keeping silence on who it was, who created it,
when and how and why it left the world so soon.
"Our Baby," forgotten by those who share its blood,
left to be weathered by wind and southern sun,
the rain a thin shadow for the tears
that are not shed on this hidden grave
that could be anyone's baby.
- Becca
Elegy on a small gravestone in Danville, Virginia
"Our Baby," it says, with no names or dates;
a little gray monument half-hidden in grass,
small like the child itself, sexless,
devoid of the proper ritual that makes passing easier—
"Our Baby," the chiseled words managing
to look mournful because of the absence
of others; perhaps there was no time
for a name that would encompass all the hopes for
"Our Baby," which now lies with its back in the grass,
staring up without sight at the sky,
keeping silence on who it was, who created it,
when and how and why it left the world so soon.
"Our Baby," forgotten by those who share its blood,
left to be weathered by wind and southern sun,
the rain a thin shadow for the tears
that are not shed on this hidden grave
that could be anyone's baby.
- Becca
