It reaches out to all that care
It is too late to mourn,
You died and I was born.
Yet each of us are cells of you,
In flesh, in blood, in bone.
Our blood contracts and beats a pulse
Entirely not our own.
Dear Ancestor, the place you filled
One hundred years ago
Spreads out amongst the ones you left
Who would have loved you so.
I wonder if you had lived and loved,
I wonder if you knew
That someday I would find this spot
And come to visit you.
- Author Unknown -
Special Thanks to Linda Thompson