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There are those on whom grief lies

like cold stones in a cemetery

women and men in streets, on buses

gray, drab, holding their burdens close,

year after year,

worn before their time


Who will never love again

or try another time

telling themselves; this stone is mine

let no other disturb it


Tradition has us unveil stones

after a month and revisit them

once a year – on Yahrzeit

we stand beside

the stones and remember.

On this day each

may place his flower

his own small stone

on the grave

and move on


There are some

who dare to reach out

to touch another thinking

my hand is a flower

from under earth’s blanket

that can brighten drab stone

when spring comes


The flowers know that

only those who have suffered

winter’s cold are granted

to grow between the stones

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© Johnmichael Simon



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