The Cemetery

Updated: Jan 8

A war hero is there

in that cemetery

closed.

Never passing gate,

hopping

fences

forced

forgotten

memories.


A florist fixes her window,

smashed. Red

lilies, wood, strikes (grève),

a chaos of calm,

she tries to sell.


Story telling

beyond money,

above fear to

fabrics of closed-minded

quilts

fathers

destroy only

after having a daughter.


As I jump this fence,

stand above the grave

of a fallen hero,

I turn

a simple stone

into a story.


My own mother,

a master of quilts or blankets?

Quiet or loud?


When I am a mother,

quilts or blankets?

Quiet or loud?

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