The road was built to curve around
the old cemetery,
tire worn asphalt mirrors weather
worn headstones.
It is normally a quiet way home,
only the occasional passing car,
these days it is usually me, a few birds
and the restless ghosts.
Across the narrow path is an
abandoned school,
chipped red brick, flag-less pole,
empty playground.
There is no instruction in the classrooms,
but wildflowers still grow over the dead.
Awakened Words 