Her gravestone waits in fields of gold
engraved—her name is crisp and bold!
An angel harks—her palms to sky
as if she’s pleading forth a sigh
for God to grant her peace from cold.
She lay at home in blankets rolled—
a ghost whose home is days of old,
engulfed in pleas, what if’s and whys,
her gravestone waits.
Her drapes have long since turned to mold,
suspended weary, threadbare cold.
Too late for her, her light’s been doled,
farewell to days it’s time to die
for all her stories have been told,
her gravestone waits…
© Kristin Reynolds 2008
I am going through my old writing folders and finding some I still like. I have a few I might post over the next week or so…not sure yet.
This is a Rondeau, like in flanders feilds.
I do love the Rondeau’s. Sonnets and ballads…have been mostly free verse girl for a while now.
This was written with the old woman in mind who is dying, but has had her gravestone up and ready for decades (like my own Gran—hers was up 25 yrs before her death). some people do not live…and don’t care if they do.