How profitable it is
To spend time among the stones.
Engraved names, dates, and epitaphs.
Cicadas call. Birds chirp.
A breeze softly blows.
Shadows are cast upon the ground by sunlight breaking through the canopy of ancient oaks with outstretched branches above.
I am stilled to wonder.
How will my stone read?
Who will pass and read my engraved name and reflect upon the shortness of time between the dates?
Yet those dates are not final.
As the sun casts new shadows, a trumpet will call. Not cicadas.
The heavens will sing with the birds.
These dates, engraved, seemingly so permanent will be
in the scope of eternity.
And the stones will cry out in praise.