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Poem

It is a sun filled, November morn, leaving church in town;
I look at the memorial garden, seeing how it is over grown.
They escort me to the back of my waiting car,
Each step is slow for me, why it seems so far?
They fasten me in the back securely,
But alas, I know, we shall know no hurry.
My driver eases my car, away from the curb,
I feel the warmth of sun, it feels so utterly superb.
We pass through the hustle and bustle of downtown,
I see myriads of people waving, looks to be all of town. 
Past the bakery, wafting its aroma, at which I salivate,
Knowing though I cannot cause us to stop nor tempt my fate.
A quick turn to the left and an ever so slight turn right,
We drive through the little towns, one and only light.
Picking up speed we must continue to drive on,
Leaving towards the outskirts, then just beyond.
We slow, to make our turn and we go gently up the drive,
I glance around me, noticing that we are first to arrive.
One, by one, they all come up past the stately lawn,
I look, waiting, doing my best not to let myself yawn.
My driver opens the door up, for just, little old me,
I am carefully escorted past a gnarly looking hemlock tree.
I see that all have come, heads all bowed they gather round,
A few words are spoken and they lower me slowly in the ground.

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