At the town’s edge and

past the gates lie earth and stone

in rows and columns.

While it is still new,

count the seconds and heartbeats

ere laying to rest.

With each breath of life,

each step taken, not taken,

with each thought of death,

the earth keeps whirling.

The world does not fade away –

it forces your move.

Footsteps on the grass…

minutes and hours will pass…

Footsteps grow fainter…

At first, fresh flowers,

solemn words, and somber tears

meet that patch of ground,

sink into the dirt

in exchange for sprouting life,

searching for sunshine

and the mourning dew.

Familiar voices murmur

with sorrow downward

and prayers sent upward.

When days and sunsets go by,

soil stays drier

(except when the rain

washes away parting gifts…

and more memories).

The leaves have fallen.

The grave is no longer fresh.

The ground is hardened.

Less company means

wilted flowers on the grave.

The frost has arrived.

Weeks and months go by…

Snow has covered everything,

but not erased yet.

Some hold on to grief.

Others happily forget.

Holidays will pass.

(Those are the hardest.)

The worst over, pain lessens.

Wounds close up and scar.

.

They reopen less.

When seasons then years go by,

scars of heartache fade.

Love and laughter mend.

Then thoughts no longer linger –

in sadness, at least.

The grave grows silent.

Visitors no longer pause.

When decades go by,

merely old letters

and photos bring remembrance.

Then lifetimes will pass…

centuries will pass…

generations come and go…

New graves will be dug,

the old forgotten.

Only God will know that name

written on the grave.

updated by @ceri-shaw: 11/24/19 06:16:51PM