Bitter
cold comes at autumns passing.
Winds
glide ‘cross my silent hill.
Rustling
the wild grass around me.
While
snow falls like the years before.
Coming
is the frigid winter.
When
all that once was green will die.
Many
years I’ve been here watching.
Watching
seasons pass me by.
I’ve
learned the signs of violent winds.
Of
cleansing rains, or gloomy fog.
Though
at this lonely time I wish,
to
be again in summer’s arms.
Still,
I’m left here in this place.
Behind
this gate that’s seldom used.
Assuming
that which might come next.
From
cloudy heavens up above.
My
marker has seen many winters.
So
many none could read my name.
Yet
in this grave. I’ll be here still.
Watching
as the seasons change.
