There ain’t no sky today above dull grey heads that lie in solemn silence.
Despite the frantic tap of bare winter twigs
or the thin sunshine of dawn that veils the trees,
the heads remain speechless.
The dead do not rise.
They mind not the piling flakes of perfect snow that
cozy their heads warm.
Jealous do they feel at the sight of
fresh wreaths that
dazzle one alive with red velvet ribbons
or the echoes of children’s feet
running, running,
and running around,
something they rarely ever see in this
sunken place.
It reminds them of the days
with heart
where they spent long days with their first child’s
fingers entangled in their hair,
shimmering in the sunset.
They look away,
for it is a sorrowful truth that
the attention of the living is to fade
like the dying sizzle of
steaming rosemary tea that
watered their thin, parched lips last.
The grass will soon
overgrow
to tuck the wilting flower
back to seedling.
But when a young dove flutters away from a child’s windowsill,
leaving its empty feathers on earth,
heads do turn
towards a mossless gravestone
and cry,
fresh in grief,
to a flower
never to bloom.