Winter of Their Demise


The dead’s stones are crowned in white
Some nearly drifted over,
their bones shake as cold as mine
while I survey the winter of their demise.

A life well lived, or poorly lived,
this end has come to all,
to rest alone until the day
here below these pines now flocked in snow.

My breath like dust hovers and floats ‘way,
unbroken crust sparkles
in the glint of mid-morning sun
like millions of fallen stars mourning these dead.

My winter jaunt finds flowers half-buried
their colors unnaturally vibrant,
I dust off the snow’s disrespect
for these bones don’t know of winter’s coming,

nor will they know the pending spring,
for these corporeal frames
remain mute, dumb to all
but those who love and tend their memories.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s