Roadside crosses.
Stark reminders of those
No longer with us, those
Who died alongside
Uncaring roads.
Political fodder, too,
Those crosses,
Attacked
By those who would mute
All Christian voice…
But driving my granddaughter home
I pass
A gaily bedecked cross
In a new subdivision.
I knew of the girl,
Of her trip home
On her fifteenth birthday,
The wall of water
Through that low-water crossing
That washed her
From an SUV.
For awhile,
The flowers
On that cross of love
And heartbreak were pink and white,
The colors
Of her unlived dreams.
Now, though, they’re a riot
Of color and hope.
Seeing them, or crosses
At other unexpected places,
I take my foot
Off the gas,
Think of life—
Not of Christian life,
Or my life,
Really—
Just life.
No political correctness,
No harm
To passers by
Who see plus signs
Or intrusions
Into “rights”—
It isn’t the cross by the road that’s sacred,
It’s the life that each of us
Has
Until we too
Are found
Only in passing thought.
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