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I went today
where the statue bends
to touch the nose of a fawn;
and the child sculptured is one someone made
in honor of all who’ve gone.
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The field is aflutter with fair balloons,
and wind chimes tinkling so sweet;
but these hundreds of stones bear witness alone
of parent’s hopes incomplete.
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Toys, dolls and trucks, and an angel form;
a quilt with a wish to keep a babe warm -
the gift of a parent whose darling lay
beneath the steel gray December clay.
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Some gravestones receive a Christmas tree
after forty or fifty years;
decorated in love with an old mother’s care,
and placed there through clouded tears.
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If only all parents could know their babe
is safe in God’s loving care;
and if they love Him, they too will find
their child in Heaven so fair.
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For a parent never forgets their child.
It says “Baby Land” under the fawn;
for all the young ones who left too soon;
for all cherished babies who’ve gone.
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