The graveyard is still, still,
the quietest I've ever seen.
The Day of the Dead has been and gone,
and I am here, belatedly bringing flowers.
Slowly the oaks have released their leaves, one by one,
but Mama and Daddy's names greet me plainly,
unhidden by the crinkly brownness.
I bring the pure white Christmas flowers,
and the blood red.
Suddenly I'm pouring out my soul,
thanking them, remembering them,
revealing myself, and weeping.
How I miss them!
Their struggles, their troubles, pervasive as my own,
all of us on this path called Life.
I sit for a spell nearby.
One leaf falls,
one bright yellow butterfly, all alone,
zooms by my cheek.
And then water! A spigot up from the ground,
fresh, cold water, never before seen here.
I wash my face three times in the icy coldness
and hold my face up to the November sun.
November 21, 2020