The sound of rain. The blessèd certainty of it — think as I will, believe as I will, act as I will, the rain will fall on my grave, and that is a blessing too: a blessing to the stone, should I have one, a blessing to the soft green grass that grows over me. And for an epitaph, these two words will do: Listening. Still. May they describe you.
January 6, 2021. Afternoon.
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Blessings, Death, Diaries, Epitaphs, Graveyards, Journals, Listening, Rain, The American Civil War