Wildflowers

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.

20200403_173857

1 Comment

Filed under Poetry

One response to “Wildflowers

  1. Parnick Jennings

    Well, another talent I did not know you have. I am saving the site for future visits

Some of what I write is true, some is fiction; most is merely possibility.

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