Two Years

Death's Finger

When death's cold icy finger
Reaches out to make its final touch
Will it be on winter's landscape
Or during summer's bloom?

Will the reaper touch the aged brow
With his crazy quilt of wrinkles
The tottering, frail or lonesome soul
Whose life is long since spent

Or will its certain finger take the young
The little boy at carefree play
With tussled locks and dirty hands
Engaged in grownup games

The funeral which is most deserted
That of hoary ancient brows
Who have lived beyond their friends of youth
Whose lifeline few recall

Or little children whose breath so new
And whose lives have just begun
Whose circle yet a feeble one
Whose friends are last to know

Let me sleep in prime of life
With friends to toast my passing
To remember me with laughter
With tears and hearty passion

Friends who in a scarlet dusk
Will see my face therein
And hear my voice on distant cloud
And feel my essence near

- M. Dwight Hurst
9/1/46-3/16/08

We miss you, Dad!