The Garden

Driving home from my sister’s 
in that half-glazed reflective state 
of early morning 
I pass by the cemetery. 
And in a brief moment of dull-dawn-light clarity 
I think: 
   The graveyard is a garden. 
Filled with rows upon rows of 
little holes 
With seeds safely tucked away 
 6 ft under, 
and each crop marked and labeled 
By little more than a ( Read more... )