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They are buried in the cities oldest cemetery,
     it is a large cemetery stretching for many blocks;
and one of the most beautiful in the city,
          many rich and famous are buried there.

Along with soldiers, even my brave brother,
     and just regular people are buried there;
and that is where my beloved lay in rest,
           with beautiful angels and cherubs everywhere.

The pathways are lined with trees like a park,
     all is wonderfully manicured but it is still forlorn;
it is solemn and quiet like stepping into a church,
          especially in the deep cold of wintertime.

Today, the snow is pristine in the rows and rows,
     but I follow the landmarks to the grave I seek;
only my footprints to their tomb can be seen,
          and the wind is whispering in the many trees.

Their names are snow covered but I know each,
     with my mitten I brush the snow away;
sister, father, mother, and on the other side baby, 
         my husband is buried with his family, far away.

I have brought a red rose for each of beloved,
     who lay beneath my feet in their eternal sleep;
there was no greater pain than putting them below,
          putting them in the cold ground forever.

I kneel in the snow whispering each name,
     I miss you big sister, you were my best friend;
father, you were my anchor, my rock, the best,
         mother, no one could have had a mom better.

And baby, I can barely even think clearly,
     you were perfect in my arms, my little baby boy;
who never saw the blue sky and died without living,
          we buried you with a teddy bear of blue.

I weep with the dead until my tears are frozen,
    then with a heavy heart I turn to retrace my steps,
it is a very odd thing to do on a Christmas day,
          but I do it each year, each year, each year.
 
I still have a few graves to visit on this day,
     like my sweet grandma who called me dear heart;
and to rows and rows of military dead for brother,
          who died too young and my funny grandpa.

Soon, I will travel by train to my husband's grave,
     far, far, far away, a journey I take each year; 
                                                          each year.  

___________________________
December 6, 2017

Poetry/Verse/Each Year
Copyright Protected,  ID 17-5009-29-0 
All Rights Reserved.  Written Under Pseudonym.
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