Portraits of the Dead.

A tendril invisibly,

wafting stealthily,

a hand-picked,


flower bouquet,

rotten by decay,

aimlessly floating,

across fields of graves,

comes to me finally,

as I sit alone, sadly,

beneath the shade,

of a favorite pine tree,

and it falls gracefully,

at my muddy feet,

I’ve been drawing,

portraits belonging,

to the faces of the dead,

from memories,

held strongly,

in the spaces in my head.