If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away---Henry David Thoreau

Sunday, November 1, 2009

In memory of my loving mother, Leona Hartshorn (1914-1999)

Here are the flowers
crying in red

Here is the coffin
a cold, cold bed

Here is the grave
dug deep in the earth

Here is the preacher
who promises new birth

Here is the headstone
that marks where she lies

Here are the mountains
and there are the skies

1 comment:

  1. Mr. Leo Hartshorn I am very happy that you love your mother so much that is why you wrote a fantastic poem for your loving mother.

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