Cemetary Sestina

Several times I have walked by Arlington Cemetery and felt my face wilt. I’ve waded through Washington D.C’s ever-present puddles to work every day and thought of stopping, reading the yellow, moss ruined words on the graves of people who used to exist But never have I paused there to ponder my own existence. Perhaps it’s easier to think of things in a pleasant yellow light than in the dark abyss that is Arlington Cemetery and all cemeteries alike. One would soon realize, sitting in a puddle, their own fragility and how they would soon wilt from the cold, but one does not think of wilting when lying lazily in the grass, simply existing. Not to say that we should only consider the puddles in life. Several people in the world get by without seeing them at all and make it to the cemetery oblivious, faces always towards the yellow. They don’t realize that yellow is brighter after seeing total darkness. A flower is born from light, but wilts from light too. Flowers are not afraid of the cemetery because they, like Buddhists, know they will exist again. To truly live, one must know several days of sun, know several days of puddles and believe that the former will come around again. Know where the puddles are so you might see your face for a moment, then leap over them, yellow raincoat and all. Several years later when your face is weathered and wilted you can be proud of your existence and saunter fearlessly, eloquently into the cemetery. One of these days I am going to walk into Arlington Cemetery, observe the puddles of war and think about why I exist. I’ll wipe away the yellow grime from the names, for they are names to be remembered, and remove the wilted roses for some new ones. For the future, for the world, I will place several new roses. Perhaps some yellow, several that can exist through the puddles. Roses that may wilt, but will not be forever dead in the cemetery