Ah, the solitude of the new, fresh morning!
The waking sun projects an aray of colors upon the sky.
I the distance stands black silhouettes of trees
Bent like old men's backs
Reaching to the pale sky like old women's fingers
Skinny and delicate, long and turned.
Spilled acrossthe ground
The snow adds light and character to the scene.
It has drifted up against the headstones, I imagine
Keeping family members and flowers away
For you can't see the names on the stones
And can't even see the stone itself if set into the earth.
Lonely time for the cemetary
Though so it be on the clearest of days
Because for every headstone there is a body
And for every body a soul
And every soul another soul
Who stands outside the wrought-iron gates
Looking out over the hill thinking
"He's out there somewhere."
She couldn't find the headstone if she tried
And even if she did, that's all she would find
He wouldn't be there.
Only his headstone
Bearing his name
Marking his body
But his soul now somewhere else.
Somewhere she doesn't know of
Or she would be there instead of here,
Staring out over that hill,
Notebook in her lap as she writes.
Her only solace.
But this time even that doesn't help her
And so she closes the pages before it becomes too much
Leaving her piece unfinis
Mary-Margaret Sweeney has been writing poetry
since she was very young. She was published for the first time earlier
this year, and that poem went on to be included on a spoken workd CD.
Besides writing, Mary-Margaret has a deep passion for theatre (performing
and production work). She resides in Indianapolis, Indiana but her heart
is still in New York City.