I came upon a weathered cross
of brittle bark and haggard lean
wrapped with shreds of desiccated vine
fastened once and tightened twice
by hands that must have prayed for peace
above the love laid here deceased
no flowers now that used to lay
below this weathered cross in May
just death to dust and dust to life
in little breaths of butterflies
that swirl with staggered flits and darts
a sign that someone here lives on
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