They thought that I was wrong to take you home. They were afraid the wake would be a strain. How little do they understand my own How your short years have been my loss, my gain. The grief has made me prematurely old In crying still when tears had ceased to flow; I could not leave you padlocked and alone When you might wake your dream and I not know. The calloused hands in awkward friendship pressed Unending lines of silent eloquence, Bewildered minds that could not comprehend Why blossoms fall and ripening fruit withstand. I do not know God's plans or his design I only know I lost what once was mine.