Periwinkle is the flower of death they say

but I have not seen them at the cemetery

or perhaps I pass them unnoticed

so seamlessly they fit the landscape of loss.

 

From a high point, you can see the city’s skyscrapers in the distance

each one threaded like a needle between gravestones.

On a perfect day, I imagine raising my hand to the sky

and grasping a cloud, momentarily,

before setting it free.

 

On a sloping trail, new graves have appeared

spread among this idyllic plateau

all too quickly filling the space

with tenderly kept memorials.

 

At night I see the grave lights

dots of illumination across the blackness

souls lit to the sky.