Just six feet of dirt
Separating you from me
Like the nearest star
You are always there, and yet
Utterly unreachable.
Do not weep for me
I am the apple that falls
Harboring new seeds
I am grapes plucked from the vine
Turned to a fine libation.
Forever enshrined
In pseudo-reliquaries
Their manner of death
-Violence, pestilence or time-
Makes little difference now.
I stand in the yard
Among graves, grass and granite
Straining hard to hear
Those spectral supplications
But there is only silence.
If they could but stir
From their eternal slumber
For merely a glimpse
Of their erstwhile surroundings-
No, better that they should sleep.
© October 26, 2004 by Allan M. Heller
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