Graveyard Angels

Long have they labored in their mossy wetness. Weeping stones, time-etched into permanence. For Those sorrowing marble angels are no longer lamenting A long-buried woe. Sometimes I think they are God, the way a field daisy is God. The outer will reflect the within. The granite masonry softens; melts one eon at a time. A prayer to speak for us all, uttering just as gently as any wind-dancing flower. Those long falling tears, once so sadly comforting, they now sparkle with each sun rise. Do they live in the light of Gods eye, just as do the very smallest of meadow blooms?