Shadowy wraiths drift across the grounds,
shielding what used to be their faces
in black gossamer smoke.
Ancient tombstones jut out of
the ground like rotten teeth--
worn down to sandstone nubs,
bursting from the confines of their
tawny gums, the lower mandible
of a beast in repose.
There is a new grave, naked--
borderline obscene in its raw openness.
Black-clad phantoms drift by to pay respects
or welcome the newly departed.
Not far away is the section of the children,
they slumber permanently under trees stripped
of their rebirthing foliage—black-brown
branches stretch to the weeping gray sky in
gnarled witches’ fingers.
Their manuscripts are blank—poems and stories
unwritten, never started, the muses ponder
over what might have been if they had survived.
These graves are the saddest of all
as the fattened geese waddle past, unobservant.
Shenna Lehmer is a self-proclaimed cubicle potato by day, poet by night. "November Graveyard" is her first publication.