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


and time

will carry us away.



HG – 2020

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