Sunflowers drop on a coffin of oak
A mound of dirt, a colorful cloak
Are you there somewhere?
Sing to you, talk to myself
Rearranging the flowers, late afternoon sun
Wish it would bring some warmth
Not the words left unsaid
But the discussions no longer
No benches nearby, no place to sit and draw
Swiss bureaucracy at work? Or Calvinism perhaps
The dead side by side in their order of arrival
You are number 543
Nice that you were friends with the lady in 542
And who will be in 544?
Death will choose, as will chance
The cremated go elsewhere
I look around the graves nearby
Many with flowers too tame
Or cement, so sad
The pebble filled alleys
Still, the pale green gray of lavender
Shines out among other plants
I cannot name