a soft slice of a shovel piercing the earth,
and the hollow thud as it falls
mercilessly
onto the colorless, joyless wooden box.
.
the wind, strong and capricious,
wrapping coats tighter
across shoulders,
throwing every color and length of hair
like willow leaves,
weeping sans tears.
.
unseen clouds, for all that care,
shade a cold world in an instant,
the next breaking, radiating
light and heat,
swimming through the cemetery,
and back beneath the clouds once again.
.
past the hum of the wind,
the soft monotony of human voice,
mumbling some symphony
of incoherent words, spilling sad farewells.
.
the final whisper of metal in earth
beckons the gathered
for one last longing glance,
ending with a listless turn away,
the silent sound of dress shoes
.
treading upon the vibrant, living grass,
plodding amongst the stone and marble
monuments of the dead.
