The subtle thoughts
The Day of the Dead
The loss made image in a prayer.
The flower stall blooming
And business is booming
But ONLY Halloween is unfair.
The gravity of the moment
More grave with every plot
Stepping over friend and family
And the stranger that time forgot.
The Day of the Dead
When all become saints
Beneath a tumble of well wishes and thoughts
When all axes well ground
Are buried with hope
That all grudges in the end become nought.
And that one day in our due
we’ll avoid being forgotten too;
Not left to dwell in a stoney silence
Hidden by time and grass
Removed from a construct
We like to call the past.
© The Hairy Teacher, November 2006 (revised May 31, 2020)