Glory will hover near the house
Where you were first a bride:
The home that held a loving spouse
Is truly sanctified.

The shadow of a sacrament,
Not grey, but rosy gold,
Preserves the days that two have spent
Grown close in growing old.

That far-off June when butterflies
Met flowers in a field —
A simple sum in Nature’s guise,
A precious truth revealed,

Is held and cherished like a toy
Until, among the stones,
The birds who seemed to share your joy
Sing to a box of bones.

© 2015 by Ellin Anderson. All rights reserved. No part of  this work may be copied or used in any way without written  permission from the author.