A woman sits by the grave and whispers quietly. She comes here often, to recount days past, discuss events of the present, and plan actions of the future.

Clenched between cold bones,
a decaying set of roses.
Petals worn by time, yet thorns still sharp.

Across his chest of faded blue,
with gold that would glint with the sunrise,
if the sunrise did indeed come.

Sometimes the earth quivers briefly,
and the petals believe just for a moment
that they heard a faint whisper groan from the mouth of their keeper.

But silence reigns over the grave
and so the man's body waits, expectantly.
The fruit of his life clasped between creaking bone.


She leans over beside the grave and whispers her traditional goodbye to her husband, kisses the gravestone, and rises walking away.

The stone will hold the words for him.

"Until we meet again, my love."