White winter caps peak over barren hills
Where the plain ends as crust begins to fold.
Only one step shy of mortal ills
This holy compact signed, engrave in Gold.
The hands are frail that will carry this stone.
The knees are weak that brush against the dirt.
Each found in the other new hope of home,
Like fresh salve on a wound to mend old hurt.
But life is made by more than days gone by,
For days, like mustard, must muster new life.
On the bones of old selves we cast our die
Knowing, even still, no fear of fate’s knife -
Our foundation is hewn in mountain stone,
With a core of love, as marrow to bone.