Originally published at The Catholic Thing
Beside a humble stone, a tree
Floats in the cemetery’s air,
Not planted in memoriam there,
But growing wild, uncultured, free. A bird comes perching there to sing,
Winter and summer, proffering
Its faithful song—sad, bittersweet.
That tree, that bird are you and I: You, memory; absence, me, that tide
And time record. Ah, by your side
To live again, undying! Aye, To live again! But ma petite,
Now nothingness, cold, owns my flesh. . .
Will your love keep my memory fresh?
