Cemeteries soothe her, the comfort of the
promise of death less morbid than centering.
Long impatient, ever perfectionist, she loves
a goal toward which she need not strive.
Reclining on a stranger's grave, unsure of any
afterlife, she communes more with the life lived
than the liver. At these times it is easy to
imagine the day that this shading tree, the
soft grass beneath her back, will have covered her
for longer than she will live. She arises content,
prepared to make of it what it will have been.
Isolated graveyards have their purpose, she
supposes, but prefers those that are overrun with life.
Traffic noise should counterpoint the creek beside
the willow, bustling homes be visible from every
lonely plot. Her favorite boneyard sits beside a
school--an orange never more delicious than one
eaten crouched among the solemn influenza
victims to the lively strains of recess.