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.