Country Cemetery

The little flowered weeds and lichens fill
The crevices in graveyard's broken stones
And in the morning air and oaks are still
Whose roots are intertwined amongst the bones.
Or inch their way along through human dust
That came from naught and on to nothing came.
The chance that so renews itself is just
A fact of life, recycling is the name.
And cast upon the ground and through the trees
The morning shadows fill and cool the air
While fragrant clover suffers with the bees,
The biggest burden it shall ever bear.
It's all immaculate and trimmed so neat
And what seems won been paid for in defeat.