Nacreous pink of mortal sunsets
Flush in diaphanous folds.
Pale as ghosts, bright as blood,
Crowning the withered labyrinth of branches
Of the trees that line
The graves.
If I pluck you like a star in the heavens,
Will they say you were gone too soon?
Or will your epigraph stand unread and unnoticed,
Till the wind and rain effaces all trace?
Flowers on the Graves
Written by
in Poetry
