Wet Tombstones

Stone – so ice cold
And heartless even more.
Cobwebs form on the edges.
Spiders shut their door.
White – the ridges on chipped pieces.
Sand so old but moist.
All the grass is growing back,
But the fall is coming first.
You creep beneath the dirt
And scare yourself away.
Digging for safety
You beg for any normal way.
Why are you so confused?
This is where you wanted to be,
Beneath the moistened rock
To set the tombstones free.

6-17-1992 Wednesday
Written by Gail Brookshire