Day 106: The Yearly Visit

Freshly cut grass

Line the silent pavement

Rows of stone stretching over hills

A towering home for those that lived

Lay

They’ve turned to dust

My footsteps echo in the empty air

Walking the rows made of names

No order in the order

A needle in a pile of needles

I think

If I was a stranger, I’d be lost

Old roses on a gravestone

Withered and weathered

Dry to the bone

Still holding pieces of your hand

From the last time I saw you

Thank you for the flowers

They shall lay like the bunch you brought before

Collecting sun rays

Joining me

Until the next year

Forever

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Image by Goran Horvat from Pixabay