Little David Smiled
by Bruce Campbell Walters
The priestly words the priest intoned, Computing nothing to my ears, For they were tendered null by stimuli My eyes were forced to see, Beginning with my mother's face So tranquil so long, Transformed into a face of grief, Flooded with her tears, As we somehow stood before A wide expanse of tended grass Upholding on its breast Crosses white in perfect rows, Each one above a grave. And, as gratuity from Hell An open grave, too near, too near, Eager for to hold the dear And unflawed form of Charlotte Sans breath of life and flow of blood, Yet lovely in her youth. In every dismal hour that night The skies exuded rain, And in the very dark of them Her lonely spirit rose And, through the path of love we shared, Each to the other known, Found her way back home. Spirits have no way to speak And lack substantial form, But, as the leaves of Autumn dance When Autumn breezes flow, Papers trembled in my hand When her presence passed my chair Revealing that she was there. And little David smiled. He woke not from the peace of sleep. But little David smiled.