Nancy L. Meek

STILL

So still… so still, her flesh doth lie,
so still… so cold, it makes me cry.
Her skin, her hands, her face, her hair,
tis hard to believe she’s not in there,
asleep, at rest… and living still;
tis hard to believe it was God’s will
to leave me here where she won’t be,
to take her spirit and set it free
where she, relieved of earthly cares,
can’t see me stroke what was her hair,
so lovely still, although she’s dead,
this dark pine casket now her bed,
lined with silk, so smooth… so cold,
these hands of mine as hers I hold,
this rose, this poem, this tender kiss
for this, the shell which held my sis,
so still… so still, her flesh doth lie,
so still… so cold, it makes me cry.