Winter in the Cemetery

by Brittany Noelle Adams

Set in rows, in many a number, under the ground a good many slumber
The slate and marble tend to quake underneath the snowy flakes
As I walk, I hear a crunch; my shoes are atop a freezing bunch
And the resting beings who lay below cease to thaw in their neat little rows

The angel perched on the marble tomb is wrapped within a sparkling white womb
I stop and feel the wind caress the many folds that consume my dress
And as I listen to the silence, the biting air resorts to violence
My fingers red, my fingers raw, out here they may never thaw

The willows cast a frightful shadow, the branches sulk like a tear-streaked widow
Beds are very neatly set for those the living cease to forget
The mourning doves survive the frost and sing a haunting tune of lust
And the paths that encircle the many graves could not from anyone be saved

A whippoorwill preaches to the wood, hoping he’ll be understood
Pine trees blend into a sea of green with a white topping that does not remain unseen
The cemetery hides to keep it’s mystery, it holds on to feelings of sadness and misery
Yet it holds a beauty that goes unexplained, a beauty quite intriguing and not at all plain

Now upon the world does darkness pry and laugh as the daylight begins to die
The blustery wind howls and whips at my face, as winter then puts me back into my place
I decide to now exit the peaceful abyss, after all superstition with me is not a miss
I’ll come back to the cemetery maybe in spring, so I can hear the Blue Birds as they sing