Some things are not obvious at first glance.
At the far end of the cemetery
stands a lone tree.
Its branches are bare now
and they droop towards the ground.
At the farthest corner of the cemetery
stands a forgotten grave.
The marker is plain, unadorned
and the words are almost worn away.
Almost separated from the rest of the cemetery,
a place of shared grief and unspoken comfort,
the path begins to cover itself to bury its destination.
Beyond the expensive headstones and well tended flowers
there stands a forgotten tree
guarding a lone grave.
Its branches are bare now,
its fingers caressing the marker’s head
as a cold breeze drifts by.
The grave is no more than a discarded memory.
The tree is all but dead.
Yet the grave is not alone
and neither is the tree.