It is

A season of plenty,

A season of doubt,

With fruit on the vines

And two urns in the ground. 

Where did they go?

Where are they now?

In the shade of the walnut?

In the lost time we’ve found?

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Memories in objects:

In hats and in wishbones,

In songs and in sweaters,

In letters you wrote.

At the next sunrise

Please give me a sign

And know that I love you

As you love outside time. 

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Be just right there,

Offer your prayers

To those on high

For we who cry. 

Help us to know 

By what we grow

The mysteries

For the living. 

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