mark the mist—
how gently
nature lays
her pale hand
on the
bent grass
covering
the dead
she is poised
to touch
the soul’s
ascent
on the cusp
of burial
we will
whisper in
reverent remembrance
when she
kisses each
heart of
stone made flesh
mark the mist
breathing life
into dry bones
………………………….
in passing a cemetery
this morning
by troy cady
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