The weight of remembering-

The past comes to those who have chosen

to take up the burden.

It becomes a tangible thing

It’s weight unable to bear it’s self.

And it’s loss,

Though often unrecognized,

No less a wound born by the living.

It comes at times a comfort.

It asks of us to enter,

To remain and to be steadfast.

When we are equal to it’s measure-

There is a joyous stirring in the graves

Like a child turning in the womb

Those unseen, gone from us, and unborn…

Those whom we are looking toward,
Those to whom we belong;

Are freed from their eternal bonds

And with joy they wait…

Or in peace they rest.

Offten it comes a burden-
And
when unequal to it’s measure

We are haunted by the ghosts

Of those who bore our same burden,

Or burdens of greater weight;

With greater patience,

Or with greater humility,   

Or both.

But the dead make no judgment.

What rest could we have, with contempt in our hearts?

And those who will come after us

Bear no ill regard for our failures.

Who would sow seeds in hope that they might fail?

Who would not hope

That after a time in darkness,

What they had planted

Would not be made

One day
see the light?

Surely no ghost haunts the alleys,

Nor the doorstep, nor forests, nor the night.

No phantom stalks the dawn,

Or our rest.

Only the fear that we be unworthy

Of those whom we have loved....  

Can keep us from our joyous sleep.