The Garden

"They tried to bury us in the ground. They didn't know we were seeds."

For the very first time in 20 years I am standing at the foot of my mothers grave,
planted in the ground, slain
behind a series of choices she made
moss dangles eerily from an Oak and she is buried at the base.
Her remains,
along with her mother and mothers mother are nestled at the root
headstones scattered like flowers in a garden, the oaks outstretched arms are the proof
that even in the presence of death,
it is reaching ... this is life longing for itself.
3 generations at my feet, we have left
a legacy of untimely passing
yet I don't find myself asking
about my final hour
rather ... whether or not I have created enough flowers.
Whether or not I have sowed enough seeds to make my time here meaningful.
Where there is life or death in the power of the tongue
let my every utterance be pollen fertilizing legacy.
Let me be
that mustard seed.
small yet complete in it's capability to spread a good word
like roots traveling through the ground,
let the fruit of my life  be so profound
that it's cyclical bloom and death
in and of itself
is an exemplified expression
of the seeds resurrection.
Let US BE the reflections ...
As I lament on the remembrance of my parents
many of the stories make me cringe with shame,
"which of my mistakes will be retold when they mention my name?"
and I am then overwhelmed with gratitude for God's Grace
and the sacrifice that was made ... that I might  be forgiven.
It was written ..
that we each die twice.
Once when your soul leaves the flesh
and again when your name has received it's last breath,
for surely there is life and death
in our words.
Let your legacy be heard
living in accordance of the kindness of his harvest
so that one day your own children might stand in your garden
and outstretch their arms as a mighty Oak Tree
forever spreading your name ... like the seed.