The evening winds converse with the dead
Ignoring the dormant abodes of the living
Bird-less trees reply with a rustle
The language of loneliness fondles their leaves
I wander among the dew-coated headstones
Contemplating each legacy laid
My name not found among the assortment
I’m somewhat dwarfed among the alliance
“Conklin, Edwards, Allen, Schultz ….”
The names read off like a tepid parade
The resonance of their distinctive tones
Pounds like a catalyst soon to awaken
The epitaphs scold with a look of importance
Victorian elegance cynically carved
I exit the lot with a trace of naivety,
Leaving the dead to their sober retreat
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