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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: July 03, 2018

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Submitted: July 03, 2018





Snow had covered the two rudimentary roads

That allowed access to the cemetery,

One in one out, or both in,

Depending on which side of the headstone you were on.

So, it was by chance that I came across 

The place where Lydia Baker rests.


It wasn’t until spring that the roads were firm enough

To make my appointed rounds to secure the area.

When I was finally able to drive into the cemetery,

Up one road and out the other,

I could see toppled headstones, though most were upright.

Nothing new, I had been told.

My job was to assure that more vandalism did not happen,

Those youthful pranks that served no purpose,

Like tipping cows and watching them struggle to their feet.


As I toured, I stopped on the road to close the caretaker’s door.

When I returned, I saw it there on a grand obelisk, shaped like a chess rook,

Rising to the sky in its slender elegance 

From its humble space on earth.

Lydia Baker, born October 4, 1803.

I walked around to find a clue as to the date of her demise.

There was none, the date either excluded or worn away 

By the ravages of the years.


I could not help but wonder.

Decades, perhaps centuries, separated us.

Were there many mourners at the grave as Lydia was laid to rest,

Or only family members sitting at the solitary site?

I felt a kinship with this person I did not know

Yet had encountered all the same.


Each time I tour the cemetery now, 

I stop on the road by Lydia’s tomb.

It is not a haunting place, 

But rather, serene and restful,

With those many years between our existences.

I will either sit in tranquil silence, 

Enjoying the sight of open fields

That stretch across the opposite horizon,

Or listen to classical music,

Sweet violins and symphonies serenading Lydia,

Though only the past knows if this was her wont,

Or if she preferred a banjo and a fiddle.


I am thankful for the chance meeting 

When Lydia Baker came into my life.

She lives on in a simple manner,

No fanfare or parades to celebrate her life.

Only a tranquil moment between two souls,

Separated by centuries,

Yet as close as the grass that grows

Between the grave and the road.



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