My Little Garden Amongst the Stone

My little garden amongst the stone

I planted a little garden, amongst the stones today   The dirt was dry and rough, from that cold and bitter day

The sun was warm, and the grass no longer brown The green shoots all bursting, and buds falling all around

… The sweetness of the wind, the met the empty little plot   The clods of dirt now broken, in that tiny little spot

In brokenness life met with death, worked gently into the soil   Each seed tenderly planted, to end my labouring toil

Fleeting love, broken memories, now watered the little dream   The tiny love placed in the soil, now flowing like a stream

I tried ebb the flow, lest it float the seeds away   Of the seeds newly planted, that very special day

But as they flowed I was reminded of a new life’s little story   Birthed in love and bred pain a tiny gift from glory

I held birthed love and cradled it, and new that one day   We would come to visit this little garden, where pain can never stay

In Loving Memory of  Emma Marrie Rose    Born in to glory   December 24 2011 Melody Lily Anne

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BIRTH & BEREAVEMENT QUOTES
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She was a genius of sadness, immersing herself in it, separating its numerous strands, appreciating its subtle nuances. She was a prism through which sadness could be divided into its infinite spectrum.

— Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything Is Illuminated

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.

— C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

I am strong.

— January, founder of Birth Without Fear

When someone you love dies, and you’re not expecting it, you don’t lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time—the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers. Gradually, you accumulate the parts of her that are gone. Just when the day comes—when there’s a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that she’s gone, forever—there comes another day, and another specifically missing part.

— John Irving, A Prayer for Owen Meany

They say time heals all wounds, but that presumes the source of the grief is finite.

— Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Prince
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