Poetry by Jim Ashby
I oversee the land that grieves;
acres of lawn and fallen leaves,
prolific mounds of mother earth,
pregnant mementos of rebirth.
Manicured, undulating, hills
mask the role terra firma fills;
to swallow mortals in her loam,
their destiny and final home.
And as they slowly decompose,
their longing rests in He who rose
spurning death and burial shrouds
beatific, through parting clouds.
As for me, the gard’ner of death,
I prune old vines and baby’s breath
wielding the very pruning knife
I use to trim the tree of life.