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.