Headstones

Traipsing dizzily across the yellowed
grass, perished under the
noon-day sun, hazily tracing forgotten
names, stacked together like
fallen timbers after an ice storm,
the headstones accept my playful
touch, fingers still ashy from tears
of old statues, baleful in watch
under the mossy tapestry, draping low
gracile tendrils woven
over sturdy oak limbs,
crestfallen beneath the weight
of ruddy sunsets, the stream of time
flows like honeyed wine in
view of a thousand eyes,
forever peering out from
Mother's embrace.