And when I sorted through what I did have, this one seemed to fit.
It’s another early morning – dark with a smattering of light rain. The dogs and I didn’t spend too much time outside in the yard. Time enough for them to get the job done and me to shake the cobwebs from my brain.
Last night, my son poked his head into my bedroom to tell me about his day. He’d made a stop at the cemetery – the one in the village where his grandparents are buried.
“Their grave looked bare in comparison to all the other ones,” he told me.
Think we’ll go up into the attic later today to pull one of our Christmas wreaths out of the pile of decorations we’re not using this year, and take it over to Mt Pleasant cemetery.
Visiting The Dead
I sit in my car
at the curb.
A man rides by your grave,
on a bike,
his daughter strapped on behind.
He wears a leather flight jacket
because its cold.
She wears a safety helmet
in case they fall.
He points to six wreaths
with holly and ribbon,
on a family plot.
He says to her,
“Aren’t they pretty?”
You would have smiled.
Gentle reminder: the poem, like all of the content on this blog, is mine. If you like it, I’m flattered. You May Not: like it so much that you claim authorship. If you do, I will sic the Blog Police on you. And, it won’t be pretty.