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Dear Dad…I plucked a crimson rose that lay
Upon your grave as icy rain fell down
And joined my warm, wet tears that winter day.
Unto my heart I pressed it close to drown
The doleful thoughts and feelings deep inside.
And then I numbly made my way back home
To grieve and heal with loved ones by my side.
But soon they left, and I was all alone.

That night I placed the crimson rose within
A random place inside a book of prose
And it pressed flat for quite some time therein.
One day I opened it to find I chose
The place that God directed me to lay
The rose in answer to my prayers of where
You were in death so that my heart could say
That everlasting life was yours to share.

What I had hoped I know for sure is true  
For words upon the page where that rose slept—
"The Grave," by Robert Blair—bodes life anew…
In God’s eternal life our souls are kept.
My keepsake rested in a book of prose
God’s intervention was my only guide.
Mid secret pages dried the crimson rose—
God’s answer to my prayer…with thanks, I cried.

Sandra M. Haight



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