Garden Of Stone.

In winter, glittered black branches grasp
those who pass, unseeing.
In this place silence envelops,
holds all in a shroud of respect.
Here, no ugly flowers are potted,
faded, forgotten, fermented,
left to die and decay
in dirty glass jars,
fed with tears of remembrance,
there is no need.
In this strange place a
warmth chases out familiar chills,
like a spirit,
sheaths those who tend
its beauty.
In this place, where
we pass, unwilling to stay.