Where the Dead Live

 Where the Dead Live

On a hill in southern Wisconsin,

Open to the sky and farmlands there,

Lies a small village of the dead.

In the center a ruins, a ruins of a chapel,

Just four stone walls left there.

Done-in likely by lightning to show man 

That his works are as transitory as he is.

Nearby lie two ancestors, my Dad’s parents.

My Grandfather I never met as he passed before I was born.

By all accounts, a hard worker in the Great Depression,

Who kept his sense of humor, and passed it to my Dad.

Next to him, my Grandmother’s last bed.

I know her at the level of a three-year-old’s feelings,

For she lived with us then but passed too soon.

My memories of her are sweet, as sweet as she was,

And certainly a blessing to her husband and son.

This place we visit is their last home.

We visit to learn from them still,

To keep alive their memory and honor them, 

Honor them in the passage of time.

They are alive in our hearts.