Memorial Day

Ah memorial day, when the flowers grow fat on graves,

and we remember our loved ones in pain and grief,

made sharper by the bright sun in sharp green relief.

I don't know where they have gone, but they are gone.

A stone added to a pile on top of cold stone is a sad substitute

for seeing your smiling face once more.

You were in my heart, but then you left out the door,

and into that cold hole that is in my heart,

and in this cold earth. Ashes in the hearth.

And shuttered windows where once the colored curtains hung.

Why did my light songs turn into heavy dirges?

And the weight of your memory, lies over once easy motives and urges.

I could write Hallmark Cards. Now I write memorial markers.

Christopher H. Holte