Wandering among old tombstones
stumbling over quaint verses,
searching for a remnant of prairie
where elusive wildflowers
bloom in the land of the dead.

I count small white crosses
marking the graves of children
who never claimed their promise
or worked beside parents
breaking sod in a new world.

Am I worthy of these courageous
ancestors who came across the sea,
drove a trail,
forged desires out of clay,
shaped the land with callous hands?

Under the open sky
a cross, an angel, a veteran's star
withhold their story from my ear.
Silent are the voices of my kin,