Hallowed Ground

His ashes arrived at my brothers'

In a blue cardboard box with a label.

But that wouldn't do for our father,

So we, my brother, sister and I,

Made him a box of blue maple.

Blue for the sad of saying good-bye too soon,

To our father so loved by us all,

And the maple so lovely, a cousin,

To the trees on the hills of Vermont.

We measured (at least twice),

Then made each cut, then sanded each rough edge,

We smoothed each side and top and bottom,

With mineral oil and love.

In one corner we tucked a baseball,

Then gently and somberly put in the ashes,

(With a tear as the reality struck us)

And tied the box with a simple leather tie.

And we knew that it was good,

We looked at each other with pride,

For this was a fitting box for our dad,

With the warmth of the wood,

And the love of his kids.

So, on this hallowed ground (his and ours),

We sent some of his ashes out,

On the gentle Vermont breeze,

Over the hill overlooking our paradise.