I never went to see the grave again
where I suspect there must be moss
growing over you, and your name engraved,
and someone might have placed a cross,
and there are leaves of cause that cover up the stone.
In Summer, flowers grow there I suppose,
I never saw them, but I see them grow,
some daisies or a wildered, lonely rose.
A bird will sing in Fall, and storms will blow
above you, then the silence comes of Winter,
always followed by the soothing rain,
leaving just a hint there of a scent of you .
I never went to see the grave again.