Alone
a cemetery
perhaps can be
a sanctuary
place without pretense
somewhere to go
and sit with stones
most of whom
you knew not
yet you knew them all
for they, too
lived and dreamed and lost
felt love in all its form
some died too young
others too old
some were already dead,
buried long ago
others newborn
names and dates
sometimes scripture
possibly a poem
plastic flowers picked up
by the wind
tokens tossed, taken in
and here and there
an empty spot
where the sun burns
and the rain soaks
and a bird flies over
and soles drift by
like swans on water
like a lullaby
TL