© Heather M. Iverson
Stone garden amid a green pasture; gray, foreboding clouds above.
It's right there, in front of me, wooden train bound for heaven.
Unfamiliar but knowing eyes staring back at us.
She is released through our tears,
Through the balloons drifting skyward.
Nothing's immortal but the scent of a flower;
Roses and carnations, roses and carnations.
The trees sway and whisper, carry emotions on the wind.
There is peace amidst our sorrows;
Just as life springs from death.
And the grass is always green in the quiet garden of stones.
And through the clouds, the sun still shines.