No, not flowers. He liked flowers, but it didn’t seem right.
She sat, looking down at the quiet ground that was so unlike him. Davy had never been quiet. He had never stood still. Even in sleep, he was always tossing and stealing the blankets for himself. Peg’s mouth crooked in a smile. Darn it, she missed him.
It was gone. A lifetime of memories was in the space of one day nothing more than burned and discolored bareness. It was hard, looking at what was left of the building, to believe that it had ever been a home at all.
A silent, solemn figure to steal through the graves, his long cloak trailing in ebon folds as if he hurried night into the evening’s blue mists. Past the disconnected lines of wooden crosses he walked, mindless of the old and pausing in a moment’s fixed grief at the newer. His glance swept the cracked marble of aging stones but never for a moment did his purpose falter, and his direct progress led him straight to the gnarled cherry, shedding vibrant color in sharp spring wind.
How often is it said that life’s a dream
And we the leaf-light drifters in its wake
Who spin by winds on ripples made of “seems,”
The visions Heaven breathes for our soul’s sake:
A world caught in a water-drop we see
That shines for one brief moment like a star
Within this vale of mixed reality;