Winter of Their Demise
The dead’s stones are crowned in white
Some nearly drifted over,
their bones shake as cold as mine
while I survey the winter of their demise.
A life well lived, or poorly lived,
this end has come to all,
to rest alone until that day
here below these pines now flocked in white.
My breath like dust hovers and floats,
unbroken crust sparkles
in the glint of mid-morning sun
like millions of fallen stars mourning these dead.
My winter jaunt finds flowers half-buried
their colors unnaturally vibrant,
I dust off the snow’s disrespect
for these bones don’t know of winter’s coming,
nor will they know the pending spring,
for these corporeal frames
remain mute, dumb to all
but those who love and tend their memory.
About this poem
I had found myself driving an old rural road one sunny winter day and happened upon an old cemetery. I stopped for a time just taking in the scene of a snow bound graveyard and wrote this piece.
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"Winter of Their Demise" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 10 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/178833/winter-of-their-demise>.
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