Ask me how these generations connect - to find the bridge of time - of mind - connecting the shores of our thoughts - our issues - our loves and concerns -
Ask me to feed the son wisdom - respect the father who fed me and tell me to change the diaper on the Holy Ghost -
A chalky finger trembles weirdly and points to the grave and a soggy ream of paper - a tomb - upon whom's brow beats the golden rays of eternal sunshine -
the cool salty breeze of the bay brushing and the tears of the living - longing to hold once more that form which the cold worm-whittled earth embraced - for eternity -
The grim angel of death - etched in 1700's stone - serves as a warning to those infallible - those minds of eternal sunshine and roses - already basking in the glorious fields of heaven - while still alive - that the future - the living future - does exist indeed - only we cannot be a part of it
And the children play hide-and-seek with a kitten - curling around the dog's grave - and a mother to the sod tenderly bends - planting an exotic array of hyacinths and lupines - her tears watering the fledgling seeds - hoping to conjure a new floral memory of one that now - in her decline - she cannot recall