Among the birches
in a field away from man,
is a small grave yard
holding my history
like pages of a
dusty novel.
So much of my family
rests there from
the first settler
to my younger brother.
The grave yard
is not a sad place for me,
when I think of the
quiet walks holding
my fathers hand,
as he introduced me
to my roots.
He rests there now
among the family he
held so dear.
Among the birches
a quiet peaceful place
down a dusty road,
off the busy highway;
where you hear
songs of birds,
a rippling creek,
the ghosts of history.
Joyce Chelmo
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/resting-place/
