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Archive for February, 2017

Rosemarie’s Ashes

Copyright 2017, DC Bianchino, All Rights Reserved.

She weaved me a braid from the hem of her dress
Made form her hands that heaven has blessed.
A hippy girl, Rosemary’s her name
So beautiful, young and not one to tame.
A Vermont lass and free spirited too
As her name implies, she;’s earthy it’s true.

She was weaving the braid while we spoke near my van
Telling me why and what was her plan
She was on her way to Portland Maine
Hitchhiking with, a fella the same.
Met him just, a few weeks before
But that’s how she is, being free to explore.

She was on a mission with ashes in hand
To a place of conception with a baby not planned
It was out of respect and compassion she had
To put him to rest in a place of his dad.

She lost this baby, in a crib death
Imagine the pain and the suffering of it?
Yet her town blamed her as if one unfit
Not knowing the hurt, how this blaming would sit
Just imagine if this, happened to you
If you’d have the strength for what she’d gone through?

Then she handed me some ash
Asked me to find a place, one special to last
I felt what a privilege she gave to this man
And thought, it was the writing on the side of my van.

Then we walked to the side of a supermarket’s wall
Sat on the grass to wait that’s all
For a ride they had coming and soon to arrive
When a cop pulled up, to question us why
And what we were doing so idly by.

He was answering a call by someones complaint
Just doing his job, so this picture to pant.
“So what’s going on, and what are you smoking?”
“Just tobacco”. we laughed, as if he was joking.

I got up and walked over, and pulled him aside
And told him about, her baby that died
And how she was hitchhiking to Portland Maine
With his ash and her love, with all that remains.

His face changed, and he offered regrets
As well as a ride, his heart was now set
That when he got through, he would take them there
And I knew for sure, he really did care.

They thanked him and said they were waiting for a ride
And I think we all felt, a sense we call pride
To come to a defense of this woman, her side
All with a love, no one could hide.

Then I left with the ash his mother gave
And I knew just where, I would bury; its grave
A place where Indians once had been
A place of peace, and now; this ash within.

And the braid she weaved from the hem of her dress
I keep it so I, never forget, this woman who chose
A man that she blessed, with the ash of her son;
Now lying at rest.

I