Cemeteries have always been a curious, comforting place to me. Even as a teenager, I remember slipping away to the peace of an ancient graveyard on a hill. Some years ago, we lived close to a large cemetery, and I regularly exercised by walking the streets between the graves. It was a quiet safe place, and I was fascinated to find a special section where only infants were buried.
“Oxymoron to a Still-Born Child” is my August gift in memory of our son.
Happy Birthday, Clay.
Oxymoron to a Still-Born Child
Teddy bears and Hot Wheel cars
sit beside grave markers,
sharing unmade memories.
Miniature pink roses and Babies-breath
rise from brass green vases,
an oxymoron to a still-born child.
A glass angel sparkles on a stick,
fragile wings of hope eternal.
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