There is an old cemetery:
The place where the dead go.
One grave has nice fresh pink flowers
To whisper that somebody is missed.
Not many graves, but very old stones
Broken and chipped stones set in tired dirt
Seen through windows of houses that
Line that still street.
Some houses set way back
As if to separate the living
From the dead.
And then, I saw a children's swing set,
And the sun trying to peek through
To perhaps lift a sense of deep gloom.
© 2015 Marjorie Levine
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