She crouches, hunkered and alone.
The gray stones like mossy watchmen
’round the mourner at the grave.
Her golden hair glints in July’s evening sun,
while birds flit and twitter sweet songs,
and a yellow butterfly flutters around pink phlox.
The heat shimmers, but does not dry
her streak’ed face.
Grief is not a simple cut or a clean, tidy break;
it bleeds from ragged holes in broken hearts,
and leaves its trace in silent, lonely tears.
This one, this girl beside her mother’s grave,
once brazen, bold and little caring
for what her words and deeds might wreak;
now, too late, she knows the loss,
now she weeps and now she mourns
and calls her mother’s name,
covers her face with her arms against the truth
that what once she had, will never be again.
The hands that stroked, caressed, beseeched,
are still, six feet below;
and though she rails and screams and beats
her fists against the earth,
the only answer she will hear
is the echo of her misery.