Laying to rest.

Winters grave pulled leaves from the trees

leaving the grounds there covered and the stems empty

What void, in death - do you speak of love, how to mend a willow weeping

So many lives there lay
With stones and gates

Memories laying to rest

The sun neatly shadows the corner stone

And I stand alone
With hand picked flowers

At the end of the land

Everything that ever was
Or ever will be
- within my hand.