Poem: The Bench Between the Worlds

Beneath the boughs where silence clings,
Where time forgets its tethered wings,
A weathered bench in twilight’s care
Holds more than just the evening air.

Two figures sit, both still and kind,
Ghost-light in their thoughtful mind.
Your grandfather, and mine by name—
Two souls, two lights, a common flame.

They speak in hushes, not with sound,
Their wisdom rooted in the ground.
They watch us pass, both young and old,
Through seasons, warm and winters cold.

Their hands, though gone, still shape the day—
In gentle winds that brush our way.
Their gaze, unseen, still finds our face
And fills the quiet with their grace.

They speak of love in glances shared,
Of days, they built, of how they cared.
Of soil turned and stories spun,
Of battles lost, and blessings won.

We sit sometimes, though unaware,
Upon the bench, they both still share—
And feel a warmth not from the sun,
As if the past and now are one.

They lean, perhaps, a little nearer,
As though to say, “We’re always here.”
Not ghosts, not dreams—but echoes deep,
The kind that neither time nor sleep

Can ever bury or erase—
The kind that live in sacred place.
So when you pass that bench again,
Know you are watched, by silent men

Who still believe in all you are,
And light your path like northern star.
Their presence lingers, soft and sure,
A love beyond the mortal cure.

Thank-you for reading.

Much Love and Light,

Brenda Marie