It was 10 in the morning.
My eyes couldn't tell the difference it made,
as I walked down the aisle with daisies in my hands.
She was beautiful this summer,
like every other summers she's witnessed.

My prying little hands,
like the fallen leaves caressing
the Earth's dirt along the pathway
couldn't stay off her delicate body
as she was clothed in a foil like garment.

A thousand kind of silence
crushed the earth like that which occurs
before a Zen monk writes his last haiku
leaving a cryptic message to his loved ones.

The wind carried the aura
of death or what was left of it;
one of the thousand kinds of silence,
a wake of pain, sadnees and defeat,
like Mr Muzat whenever he trims
the garden placed beside the cemetry.

As I stood under the Cypress tree,
I placed my ears on her grave, waiting.
Waiting to hear her scold me one last time,
about my undone shoe laces,
unkept hair and improperly knotted tie.
But all she muttered was one
of the thousand kinds of silence,
one fitting of her,
one fitting the tear drizzled grass.

It's 10 in the morning,
my eyes still can't tell the difference;
just the silence it makes.