27 September 2013

In Passing A Cemetery This Morning

mark the mist—
how gently
nature lays
her pale hand
on the
bent grass
covering
the dead

she is poised
to touch
the soul’s
ascent
on the cusp
of burial

we will
whisper in
reverent remembrance
when she
kisses each
heart of
stone made flesh

mark the mist
breathing life
into dry bones



………………………….


in passing a cemetery this morning
by troy cady







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