Her withered old face died into a long shiny coffin 

We stood and watched in amazement as they took her from the North Dakota coal black hearse. 

We listened in obedient silence as mourners sang “The Old Rugged Cross” 

In that clearing surrounded by tall weeping firs

That soundless graveyard where nothing ever exploded into smiles 

Where grave markers were made of wood too old to read forever 

Men in dark suits, solemn looking old friends of the star in the casket 

Stood lost in thoughts of days when they all laughed and when they would all die

We all were scared, we children standing small in the shadow of our folks 

Listening to the birds in the forest dark and near, not hearing the preacher’s mumblings 

We didn’t understand any of the words until they stopped, then our minds were jerked 

From our own thoughts, more songs were sung, we listened — afraid

The group moved closer to the freshly dug hole, her coffin lowered

The fresh earth like a garden, its scent of potatoes and plowing was piled nearby

The diggers stood off leaning on their shovels, smoking, talking lowly

Their old pick-up dirty and loaded with peat moss and rakes was parked near by 

Soon somebody prayed for something then we all left walking near mounded

And sunken graves, we got into our old blue Ford feeling small and disturbed, mother cried

We drove out the dusty road between chiseled stones and wilted flowers 

And through the back window and flying dust the diggers threw dirt on the ceremony. 

Douglas Granum