Beneath grayed cloak the evergreens reach high
to drink from air, their needles weighted full.
Limbs supple, softer than an unborn sigh,
subdued in mist, give way to Nature’s pull.
At night, soft whispers you may nigh hear of …
o' do not fear and turn to run from such;
for, only ‘tis the kiss of winds above
in chilling flight … upon life’s lips, its touch.
Amidst those mists and shadows lies a shrine
of vine-made arbors … gravestones for the dead.
An angel stands its guard, by Death’s design,
that peaceful comfort wroughts when life has fled.
Should thee soar high, between that angel’s wings,
hold tight with faith; then, hear the song life sings.