I was walking through a cemetary
late one cold and windy afternoon
thinking of the distended egos
that demand such cold monuments to their doom
for here and there in brittle splendor
stood granite angels on little plots of land;
oft times portraying more truth in their lines
than was in the deceased o'er whom they stand.

Then, off to one side, I found a small grave
bordered round by a white picket fence.
Gold and red leaves lay thick on the mound
like a beautiful wreath heaven sent.
No angel of stone watched o'er this bed,
though a child lay deep 'neath the sod;
a child who lived but three years on earth
before being called home to God.

The parents of this child were surely quite poor
for the marker was made of wood,
but the love and pain in the epitath
made me weep as before it I stood.
The words were simple, neither gilded nor scrolled,
but the sentiment was warm and clear.
Those words will tug at my heart forever,
"Step softly, for a dream lies here."