I do not believe that a number can read ones favorite color or the
kind of music that quiets their spirits in distress. And a stone marker covered by
leaves is equivalent to a blind man that can't foresee the future.
I dreamed that voices
will carry through green pastures as the wind catches hold of bare truths saturating
this city of a rich history still waiting to be discovered.
My feet walk with care,
trying best to be delicate as sweet souls rest in peace and I can only imagine what it
is like to be hushed in both, LIFE and in DEATH, so this poem will be their resurrection.
words and syllables join in a covenant to rebuild lost lives with honor and respect.
Whether on a sunny day in August or a blizzard in March, I will carry the weight of
their pain and difficulties through my poetry, and proudly I shall say I am the voice
This poem was read at the dedication of the memorial at the Old Cemetery on May 15,