What hearth in this ancient place
Is not stained by death’s ashen peck!
What threshold to the fireplace
Does not bear the brand of death’s iron hand!
What familial sill has not donned
That grey garb of death’s calling!
What family has not choked on this cup!
Me a sister. You, a brother
Everyone else, a father, a mother
A son and a daughter or a friend so dear.
Our grief binds us. Reminds us…
There’s too much pain
In this place we call home
Would I had creation’s pastel and brush
I would spatter it with a thousand vivid hues
Give us each a reason to smile again

Image by Unknown