I Pass the Graveyard
I pass the graveyard deep in snow.
One woman at a headstone weeps
all dressed in black like winter crows
as memories in warmth she keeps.
While icicles from boughs hang low
one woman at a headstone weeps.
Still muted angels' trumpets blow
and 'cross the powder darkness creeps
while icicles from boughs hang low.
On granite crags do snowflakes heap
where frost on trees like lichens grow
and 'cross the powder darkness creeps.
As past the iron fence I go
her mortal love in silence sleeps
where frost on trees like lichens grow.
My heart into my throat now leaps.
I pass the graveyard deep in snow;
her mortal love in silence sleeps
all dressed in black like winter crows.
Copyright © Dale Gregory Cozart | Year Posted 2017
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