White roses (Ukrainian Spring).




white roses lay neatly placed

upon the hardened snow —

just centimeters from where

the still-absent tombstone

will one day proudly loom

over wayward leaves, single

blades of grass and stalwart

perennials in rainbow shades.

the first tear drools, then

streams down my wind-burned

cheeks and others quickly

follow suit in search of

the meaning of life and death,

as well as other unanswered

mysteries prompted by your

almost coincidental passing.

friends urge me to go on

with my life and speak of

the treasure of memories and

shared experiences that have

made me the unique human

expression that I have become,

and which will further shape

the lives of others I touch.

but I believe in the worms

which industriously toil at

converting your precious bones

and ashes to fertile soil which

will nourish the flowers my

successors will one day plant

when I, quite coincidentally,

find the answers you now covet.

– Adam Donaldson Powell


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