|In a magnolia grove behind my grandmother’s house
the eyes of my ancestors stare at me, peeking out
from behind the tree trunks.
I have left the house to escape her death
and smell the blossoms, their scent much sweeter
than ending lives, whispering to the ghosts
sitting on their branches and waiting for her
to join them.
When she loses her fight we burry her next to grandfather
in a quiet graveyard outside town.
Later, I hear from cousins
that the new owners chopped down the grove, and I think
of all my ancestors
now stuck without a seat.
© Copyright 2012 Kit Meyer (UN: seearrem at Writing.Com).
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