NATALIE CRICK

Graveyard in November

 

It's early November.
Rafters and stained glass glow
in candlelight as the eulogy
crackles from the pulpit
like frost over pine needles.

Each snow flurry marks another
melted year. Gone and forgotten.
The ghost trees hover.
I watch their dropped leaves
rotting with moss and mildew.
Dried, dead.

The gleaming grave stands
like a door without handle or hinge—
its only pathway through the soil.
One touch turns me to stone.

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