The green grass blows
hard, bent to a side.
On this knoll grows
a carved oak, high,
ancient and eternal.
Leaves,
forever sighing
in the summer,
and rustling in the cold,
call to me.
I will bury
my loved ones here
when I find it.
Then I will remember
their love and cry
as my tears sink
beneath the grass
and feed the ancient oak.
When I can cry no more,
I will stand,
first-seeing myself,
so ancient,
yet merely mortal,
and find someone
to bury me
where my dear friends
had gone.
©️ Obol, 2020.
