We have been led to believe in our artificial thinking that the rosebush dies in the winter,
Yet I wake at sunrise to hear the singing of the birds.
Upon opening my eyes I am witness to their dance and play Atop those dry, thorny branches.
This gives me hope
Which I will welcome into my heart
At every opportunity,
Again and again.
She takes photos of flowers in graveyards and no one knows the difference;
they love them no matter.
Flowers never mind where they grow,
be it
a graveyard
a crack in the pavement
a mountain side or a field,
as long as their roots are nourished.
And the sun still shines
and the rain still wets
and wind still blows without pause where
dead people lie.
no fear of life or death;
so the flowers grow and she still
goes and sees that beauty and peace
Abide within.
The dead no longer care the view,
Whether brilliant or dull hues,
For in ashes and bone
They no longer roam.
Merely the living as they grieve
At the grave
Care the worldly display bringing comfort
Words cannot relay.
Chole Into Diamonds 