From a distanceit looks like an alien
lost in the vastness of furrowed field.
Up closea family graveyardin a barricade of ashen bricks
covered by a lethargic red tin roof
that resounded in a cloudburst of heavy raindrops
when running across.Pulling myself over the wall
in its protector ofshining ivy green armor
I found myselfin a brigade of bristling weeds.
In a state of petrificationI gazed in reverence
at the weather pockmarked tombstones
standing haphazardlyin morbid desolation.
A force pulled meto the jagged edges of a broken stone.
Bending over I peeked insideonly to find
staring me in the eyethe cold numbness of death.
I turned and quickly rescued the somber blue-bells and spritely daffodils
that surrounded the children’s stones
for my mother.Making a hasty retreat
I wedged shoes in crevices of brick
as I clutched the wall with death gripped hands.
Like a prowler I escapedthe forbidden territory.
At a safe distanceI stopped, vowing never to return.
When I heard, the alien call,”Come again, next spring,
to pick the flowers;flowers are for the living.”
Carole Christman Koch grew up in Berks County and has been published in numerous publications. She has a passion for writing and has many stories from growing up on a farm to raising children to humorous stories about her and her husband to everyday stories to season stories and more.
