The Old Dead

it is a grey spring day
it is probably raining
as we walk the grounds 
green grass sturdy as clouds,
the ground flat as Kansas 
navigating wet granite slabs
rowed like corn, with dates
and names and hydrangeas 
arranged in blue bloom
by yesterday’s mourners

this is the new cemetery
it has a new cemetery smell
formaldehyde, sterile 

worlds away, it seems
from the ungridlocked graves
where the old dead sleep,
amongst mud, undulation, 
the rude roots of trees, 
tombstones are crooked teeth 
mossy, anonymous, beneath
boughs that shade, where
seasons change, risking 
rain and unseemly 
sunbreaks.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/49o80l/dietary_cycle/ https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/49ne9w/emotion_analytics/