The
stones have lost their glister,
But once
they could be read,
With great
accuracy at Hardister,
Resting
place for the dead.
Mounds
have lost their roundness,
Leveled
or sunken ‘neath the earth;
Each provides
a soundless cradle,
For those
who’ve left this birth.
Season
changes, varied weathers;
Death stilled
the well-laid plans.
The farms
they owned together,
Others claim
now as their lands.
The
schoolhouse where they scurried,
A church
where they worshipped God,
The place
that they were married,
All that’s
left now is the sod.
The
fickle winds all whisper,
As the grass
chokes paths untrod.
Yet those
cradled there at Hardister,
Behold the
face of God.
© Jeanie E. Hines, 1995
