23/03/2026
In quiet grounds where names are carved in stone,
Where footsteps soften every tone,
The air holds more than sorrow left behind—
It carries echoes, gentle, undefined.
Spring leans in where winter once had stayed,
And threads of green through resting earth are laid,
Soft petals rise where grief has often stood,
A quiet bloom of life where loss once could.
Between the paths, where silence used to rest,
A robin sings upon a weathered crest,
And wings of gold and blue drift lightly through,
As if they know this place, and honor too.
The trees remember seasons, year by year,
They hold the wind, they listen, they draw near,
Their branches stretch like arms that softly say:
“You’re not alone. They’ve never gone away.”
And in the hush, where hearts and earth align,
Wildflowers weave through memory and time,
Not loud, not bright, but steady in their grace—
A living warmth within a sacred space.
So here, where love outlives the turning ground,
In birdsong, bloom, and breeze, they still are found—
Not only in the past we hold so tight,
But in each fragile, ever-returning light.
