*Sacred Ground, A Poem by Myra Hutcheson
(This was written to honor those whose final resting places have been lost or forgotten)

Every day those old trees grow taller, fatter off the flesh and blood of our ancestors.
They are lost there in the wood, those that begot them that begot us.
And as we stumble around trying to guess from which we came,
those old sentinels stand, watching over us it seems,
whispering to each other as if ancient mothers proud of their toddling infants.
Hush and you can hear. Take a walk with me in the wood.
When I go there I feel like I’ve made it home.
Safe in the arms of my mother, safe on the knees of my father.
Every leaf is their flesh. Every branch is their bone.
Come lay your head on the warm sandy soil.
Listen to the stories they have to tell.
Do not waste the wisdom they share.

*I wish I had paid more attention when Daddy was talking to his sister, Aunt Dorothy, about our family history. I wish I hadn't been so bored when he took me with him to look for graves. I was just a child then and wasn't very interested in grown folks' conversations. He died when I was 13 years old.
This has become my quest. I do this for my children and my children's children, so they will know where they come from. I do this for my Daddy, so he'll know someone still cares.

*Sacred Ground, A Poem by Myra Hutcheson
(This was written to honor those whose final resting places have been lost or forgotten)

Every day those old trees grow taller, fatter off the flesh and blood of our ancestors.
They are lost there in the wood, those that begot them that begot us.
And as we stumble around trying to guess from which we came,
those old sentinels stand, watching over us it seems,
whispering to each other as if ancient mothers proud of their toddling infants.
Hush and you can hear. Take a walk with me in the wood.
When I go there I feel like I’ve made it home.
Safe in the arms of my mother, safe on the knees of my father.
Every leaf is their flesh. Every branch is their bone.
Come lay your head on the warm sandy soil.
Listen to the stories they have to tell.
Do not waste the wisdom they share.

*I wish I had paid more attention when Daddy was talking to his sister, Aunt Dorothy, about our family history. I wish I hadn't been so bored when he took me with him to look for graves. I was just a child then and wasn't very interested in grown folks' conversations. He died when I was 13 years old.
This has become my quest. I do this for my children and my children's children, so they will know where they come from. I do this for my Daddy, so he'll know someone still cares.