May I have this ....

Out on Highway 88…a desolate stretch of road
Lies a grave upon a hill…or so I have been told
While passing by one windy day…I stopped and left my car
I trudged on up that steepish knoll…It wasn’t all that far
Before long I reached the crest…perhaps it took an hour
I found not four, not three, not two…but one withered black flower
The sun did not shine here…it seems there was a shroud
A weathered cross made of wood…rested ‘neath dark cloud
‘Twas old and near impossible…I strained my eyes to read
I traced my fingers across letters…that spelled out Mary Meade
As I stood on that forlorn hill…I transcended space and time
And from a place I know not where…I heard this little rhyme
“Yes, my name was Mary, I lived not very long
There was a boy named Robert, to him I would belong
As kids we played together…climbed trees, threw rocks at toads
How could I have guessed…we’d travel different roads
I grew up rather homely…crooked teeth and wispy hair
My body long, my legs too short…I wasn’t very fair
Robert embodied a Greek God, long eyelashes eyes of blue
I learned to worship from afar…what else was there to do
We attended the same school…which one day announced a dance
Through straw like hair I combed…knowing, there’s no chance
“Robert”, I said, with feeling of dread…”I’d, I’d love to be your date”
He laughed with sound I shan’t forget saying…”You’re about ten years too late”
I walked home that day, that last day…my world had now been shattered
I spoke to God of my intent…that only Robert mattered
My mother saw my red eyes…as she waited at the door
She mentioned she would speak to me…after I had swept the floor
Her words burned to the bone…like tongue delivered flame
And by the time she had finished…I hung my head in shame
She said, “Girls like me really must…accept the Lord’s decision
God makes ugly and God makes beauty…the latter with precision
I crept that night in pale moonlight…leaving home, my room, my bed
Then through a rope around a branch…and hung ‘til I was dead
The school, my church and all I knew…labeled me a blot
And placed my grave high on this hill…a barren, lonely plot
Someone, sometime I know not who…planted a single flower
But without love to feed and nourish…it too lacked beauty’s power”
The wind slowly simmered down…I could now hear myself breath
A ball of fire hung low in West…I knew that I must leave
As I looked down upon that ground…a tear escaped my eye
It fell atop that shriveled rose…and next there was blue sky
The inky rose turned sunflower yellow… opaque clouds no more
Then I retraced Mary’s name, with trembling finger…a most gratifying chore
Now once a week I climb that hill…to tend to Mary’s grave
I ask her to that bygone dance…”Mary, my name is Dave”