We buried it all
and hoped we would forget.
Pass the time,
until the spring came,
shallow talking.
Never breaching the deep,
or exploring further.
Knowing every word
could wake our newly dead.
In a town like ours,
there are dark places
and vacant doorways,
where shades and shadows hide.
Too many ghosts,
to be truthful,
almost crowded.
Memories lost
and seldom ever found.
Snow blows in from the East
every November.
Cold sets in
and we all move inside.
But all the ghosts
still haunt the world
around us,
and we try to forget
how many we love
have died.
Under the snow
the flowers wait
for springtime.
Under the frozen dirt
they wait for God.
One will return
with the trumpet
and His angels,
and the other
will only come
with the thaw.
We turn our minds
the Christmas,
and to family.
To Joy and Peace
and goodwill towards men.
The same God
in whom we celebrate,
blesses the living,
and shepherds the dead.
There cannot be
any thoughts for death
in living.
We require all of ourselves
to make it through each day,
and the winter
will pass on
eventually,
and time
will carry us away.
HG – 2020
