Address: Title ideas? I had a title, but when I went through and rewrote this poem, the title no longer fit. Any suggestions?
Stubby green grass pokes up warily through the
weather-beaten pieces of my headstone.
These fragments lay mixed with the dry, brittle remnants of
one or two long stem roses, rustling carelessly in a cool breeze.
You lovingly left them in a crystal vase,
originally attached carefully to the side of the stone,
fastened there to reflect every last bit of light until the sun set,
now lying shattered on the ground, still reflecting
tiny shards of the ever-changing light.
These fractured shreds of stone and glass
lay testimony to the fury of that storm, a month or two ago,
and the impact of that 100 year old oak falling recklessly onto my tombstone,
seperating it along the tiny, yet deep cracks formed throughout the years.
They removed the tree weeks ago, but never really bothered
to tidy up the mess. It's your job, they said.
But you haven't come yet, and just as I begin to worry that,
maybe you'd finally forgotten me or were just too wrapped up
in your own pain and sorrow to visit me,
I hear soft footsteps crunching in the gravel
and you slowly come into view,
wearing your nice, although slightly scuffed, black dress shoes
and your one really comfortable old gray suit,
the same one you've worn on every visit, beginning with
the day I first came here.
You're walking deliberatly on that gravel, as if to
preserve the silence, invariably and inevitably present.
This time, you bring not one but
three dozen beautiful white roses, and stop
reverently at the two headstones next to mine,
saying silent prayers and paying your respect
to two of my closest friends, gone such
a short time, only two months, to my ten years,
the dirt on their graves still partially bare of grass.
Then you move on to mine, and begin to
pick up the broken glass, putting the pieces carefully into
an empty plastic grocery bag you pulled from your pocket.
Finally, you kneel in the grass, laying that final bunch of
roses down in front of you, mindful not to dislodge any petals.
I hear you whisper something softly, something about fixing this up,
before you close your eyes slowly, painfully, and
sink down until your head touches the largest fragment,
bearing my name in large badly worn letters,
and I feel your tears lightly strike the stone
and slide off into the growing grass as you mourn
your loss, still as great as that first day, that first time
you sat in front of me, not noticing that I was still there,
if only in spirit, and cried as you do now.