Tiny Tombs

What if when the sky rains, it reaches the graves.

And in a little tombstone, is a young soul.

One that left this world far too soon.

I wonder if they’re cold, if their lips are blue.

They're only so big, their hands still so small.

What if their little toes are shivering?

Teeth chattering and their tiny body shaking.

Slowly getting colder and colder in the downpour.

I hope they aren’t icy and I hope I'll see them soon.

Wrap them in a warm embrace, hold their hand too.

A hug they wouldn't been able to return,

Still so little, so unsure of how life is yet to work.

Not even speaking, walking or crawling yet.

Too young to leave but with little wings, they fly high.

They must reach clouds, but what if rain brings them down.

What if they're not strong enough to fight the wind.

Their little bodies were tossed and turned around.

I hope they make it to a nursery in the sky.

I hope their parents meet them soon.

Their parents might be able to finally tell them their name.

Maybe the wintry tint in their skin will finally be replaced.

These little children are far too young to die.

To force themselves into the sky.

Cause if the open range of clouds begin to water,

These little souls may have to work a fair bit harder.

If their parents follow shortly after.

Maybe they can pick them up and hold them close.

Caress them in gentle arms, bring them to the stars.

And I don’t think they are going to be cold for long.