The cherry trees line the stone wall of the graveyard. Within the curtain of ceaseless pink petals in ethereal flurry, azaleas in mind warping hues trumpet an electrifying aura that draws my eyes in a hummingbird frenzy. Lichen mist and moss velvet. Patinaed bronze and sangria maples. All is quiet. All is serene. Upon this landscape with a setting sun that opalesces the evening sky and imparts a glow to the new green unfurling, Death is holding his arms open in a gesture of kind…look at how time has allowed your grief to bloom…
E. A. O'Connell. May 2, 2022.
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