Somewhere between sorrow and serenity
I sit in the ember glow of dusk, feeling old,
Appreciating the peace of things passing
As Autumn turns greens into golds.
The days get shorter and the wind picks up pace.
The logs creak and sigh in the old fireplace.
The scent of decay mingles with the woodsmoke.
The ghosts of warm breaths linger in the cold air.
My garden has become a graveyard.
Pumpkins and potatoes rest in straw nests.
Corn-stalk skeletons fill the idle fields
With only crows to keep them company.
Before the spring greens and songbirds return
I will be resting too deeply to hear them sing.
I want you to make a garden out of my grave,
Fill it with flowers and friendly farewells.