On a hill near a stream, they silently weep... Like guardians of gates, their vigil they keep.
The wind in the willows, their leaves they do sway... As a reminder of sorrow, with each passing day.
Planted by hands and hearts that do ache... Planted by brothers for their dear sister's sake.
The willow it weeps, And so do we, For now there are two... Where once there were three.
In memory of my sister, Kristi Rosage Bishop, by Bernie Rosage, Jr., Copyright 2001. |