Tears From Heaven
The old prospector’s children carry his ashes to the end of the hiking trail,
place the urn among giant boulders and wind sculpted tree skeletons,
atop a granite rock slab, above a muted meandering river.
They remove the lid, but do not toss or spread the cremated dust.
They know the mountain will exhale an evening breath that will release him.
Eyeing approaching rain clouds, each child says a few hurried words in his memory
before scampering down the forest path.
The old prospector is not dead in death.
He does not rot in a synthetic pine box.
They begin the drive out across the desert valley.
At the end of the rutted gravel road, they stop next to the paved highway and look back.
They now notice the telephone pole crucifixes beneath the majestic mountain cathedral.
They hug, hold hands, and stand in silence as heaven’s tears begin to fall.
The old prospector is not dead in death.
He does not rot in a synthetic pine box.
His ashes drift down gullied crevices.
They float onto pine branches, slumbering rodents, and soaring thermal hawks.
Thunderhead clouds carry him above waves of grass into rain-fed streams.
His ashes mix with earth mulch to be touched by paws, hoofs, and hiking boots.
The old prospector is not dead in death.
He does not rot in a synthetic pine box.
Comments: Award winning artist-photographer Cole Thompson allowed me to use his wonderful photograph as the inspiration for this narrative poem.
