Men with shovels break gray clods into dust.
A woman with beaded fingers asks again
the question on her mourner’s lips.
With porcelain ears she waits for an echo
through parting clouds.
Graveside
28 Thursday Feb 2013
Posted in poems
Poetry on the run
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I am leaving a comment. Sometimes comments are what we think we ought to write instead of what we actually have in mind. I am not telling you which this is. lol
I see the dreary graveyard. The woman with her rosary beads questioning a god about the why of it all. She thinks she is going to find the answer of it all from some ethereal mystical being. None comes. 😦
Cremate me, sing joyous songs and toast my life with laughter. 🙂
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Whichever type it is your comment is one I heartily agree with.
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