Ana,

Your grave lies small beside the grass,

which short–I hear the sound of mowers still

rises higher than the marbled flat within the ground.

This place we laid you:

never once to see the sun,

or the brown and dying blades

of life.

But now the grass is green again

and now the sun (at last) is warm.

I dream you’re resting, Ana, here

within a world that seems (in parts)

to live.

~ Your brother

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Photo by Nicolas Messifet on Unsplash