09 Aug Back 40
Beside the weathered garden gate
Down at the old home place,
A withered wildflower
Lies peaceful and still,
Too faded, too weak to bare its face.
The intrepid spirit of fragrant youth
Fell languid beneath the sun;
A pale and weary traveler,
Whose race was briefly run.
The barren earth is warm at last —
A berth for dying alone.
The barren earth is warm at last,
Where once, there was a home.