Early morning is the best
time for a walk, especially in the spring. The air is full of bird
sounds and little else. The smell is heavy dew. My feet "chus, chus,
chus" on the gravel. My mind drinks in the sights, sounds, and has
a tendency to awaken my muse--I
will not allow it for this morning is
meditation in motion.
I'm the only one here as
I walk in the cemetery and see all the "trophies" my little
niece calls them. Are they rewards for a life well lived I wonder? Do
they know who visited, or what they had to say? I've often wondered if
they can feel the grief of those that lost them. Do we comfort ourselves
by speaking to them? Or do they, indeed, wait for our words to speed
heavenward?
The cemetery is gray
stones, in all shades, shapes and sizes: some brown and red-brown
monuments are spattered here and there--names reading like a German
role call with Swiss and Italian thrown in occasionally. Plastic
flowers, silk flowers, and a live plant that survived splash a memory on
dark colored background. I note some are remembered, some not. Are those
the last of a line, or perhaps the family has moved away? Or maybe there
was a rift that was never resolved and now can't be for eternity.
Old Maples and older
pines shade the long gone sleepers, and Robins find good picking among
the stones and tears-wept moist ground.
I go home from my morning
walk as they already have, long ago.