Sing of grey morning
And her long wooden fingers
Which pry gently against
The shaky pilgrim’s hand.

For dust has gathered on
The tomb. Once white marble,
Now faded, waiting to consume
Another pretty little lover.

And the preacher speaks of hell,
But there are still children
Swaying in the vineyard
And flowers next to sidewalks.

While just yesterday
Death was something to envy,
But this morning the sun did rise,
And the willows smiled.