It will be almost a year since we last spoke; or since this silence. It was after the Day of the Dead, when all the tombs were whitewashed. Like everyone else, we wreathed marigolds around candle stumps. The air, heavy with untold stories, smelled like smoke. It was after the Day of the Dead, when we went to clean the tombs. People came with their baskets of food and picnic blankets. The air, heavy with untold stories, smelled like smoke. Likely you'd run into someone you hadn't seen in years. People made offerings of food arranged on picnic blankets. In the old cemetery, the paths between plots curved and dipped. Likely you'd run into someone you hadn't seen in years. Though this silence is death, I only look for your face among the living. In the old cemetery, the paths between plots curved and dipped. It will be almost a year since we last spoke; or since this silence. Though this silence is death, I only look for your face among the living. LIke everyone else, we wreath bright marigolds around candle stumps.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
