Every time I return to your new home,
it's a chilling affair,
as I roll in on four wheels and a prayer,
my hair stands on end,
and dances in the wind.
Stone cold silence greats me each time,
when I emerge from my car,
and sift my way through the yard,
tromping above the dead,
shoes filled with lead.
It's a stone and granite garden,
marble here and there,
a stiffness in the air,
that hangs right around your feet,
holding you in place like concrete.
I kneel before the dirt and rocks,
and press my hands in deep,
in an attempt to try and feel,
your touch reaching back,
through 6 feet of disconnect.
And I swear I feel your warm touch,
and hear a bad joke whispering in the wind.
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 1:36 AM UTC
Every time I return to your new home,
it's a chilling affair,
as I roll in on four wheels and a prayer,
my hair stands on end,
and dances in the wind.
Stone cold silence greats me each time,
when I emerge from my car,
and sift my way through the yard,
tromping above the dead,
shoes filled with lead.
It's a stone and granite garden,
marble here and there,
a stiffness in the air,
that hangs right around your feet,
holding you in place like concrete.
I kneel before the dirt and rocks,
and press my hands in deep,
in an attempt to try and feel,
your touch reaching back,
through 6 feet of disconnect.
And I swear I feel your warm touch,
and hear a bad joke whispering in the wind.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
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