The grave is waiting there but doesn’t care as such.
I now and then wipe nature droppings from the stone.
The grave would be okay to be there left alone,
as graves don’t mind about who’s grieving all that much.
I come here for the blackbird’s song each time I go.
He sings his graveyard tune that vibrates through the air
with thoughts and memories emerging everywhere.
It is a simple tune that all the mourners know.
In what he sings, I hear my father’s laugh, his scorn
and in the melody my mother’s unsaid words
now spoken clearly in the language of the birds
and sounds I heard from times I wasn’t born.
a repost from April