The Grave
The Grave
Written: by Tom Wright
4/23/99
One crepe paper fashioned,
crimson flower,
someone has brought today.
Faded, from another year or earlier shower
that fell this morning in May.
In need of soil I thought,
is there no one left to weed this plot,
has family ceased to care?
Perhaps no one remains to tend this spot
where now I stand and stare.
Near the weathered sandstone marker
a fresh cut flower.
Set strategically in It's place,
seemingly within the hour,
standing alone in a milk bud vase.
What does this story tell?
Perhaps one flower growing in It's bed
was all they had at home.
Now gently placed at this persons head
thinking neither might be alone.
Motionless, I stand thinking.
To the dead, these flowers we are giving
when we place them here this way.
I'm wondering, were flowers given while living,
or was it put off until today?
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