Fleeting
Church bells chime
in the distance,faint but continuous;
real or imagined,
I couldn’t say,
my senses off
as I alight
among stone.
The plot clean,
adorned with fresh flowers,
marble new,
unstained,
unholy date
chiseled deep,
not worn.
I rest upon
the warm earth,one hand laid
across your name,
fingers splayed
to cover the date---
so wrong
to have lived
so short a time.
First published in Wilderness House Literary Review
September 29, 2014
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