and today i visited the grave
where our love went to rest,
not to one day resurrect —
its slumber surely eternal.
but i saw that truth bear fruit
that all death makes way for new life
when i saw flowers sprout
reaching for sunlight.
the stone had weathered, too,
battered by nights of hurricanes,
engravings lost to time,
memory’s sands
slipping through my fingers.
time heals all wounds,
sure as a great oak grows,
sure as cliffs erode.
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 