These places where we walk
Hand in hand
These cemeteries where according to code
The generations are gathered together
For the afterlife   you do not believe in
These grey places among the butterfly weed,
Touch-me-nots   of our solemn sequestrations
Where I tell you I believe
In your brown eyes    stark black hair
And long arms    slender silver-tinged fingers,
You dramatic
In this pale blue light
Among birds of day
That roost uneasy at your step,
Spurts of flutter
In the crisp dead cedars,
You stunning
In the moonlight    where you tell me
Among kneeling lambs, glinted angel wings
That we may some day discover
How to love
By learning from ghosts

–David Tillinghast