Meditation in a Graveyard II
“God, speak to me…” I whispered.
From the calm a cool and pervasive wind
ran its fingers through the leaves.
And dead ones fell. I don’t want to go
home, as I pull for my stubble.
“Appreciation full grown is Love!
Don’t forget that, my son.
And be tenderhearted as I am,
with words as a bee outside the window
when you can only see it fly. Not bitter
like its sting, or wrathful like its
unknown enemy. Face trouble
as the tree does when blown by my voice.
Heed the word that was spoken
to you amongst the dead.”
