Wheel of Misfortune?

I pause in my journey

to the grave of my friend,

to commemorate his birthday

in a mid-December snowfall.

Deeply regretting that there

is nothing here but a

slab of granite

standing at attention

like many others around it

forming sentinels of grief.

no warn handshake

and quiet conversations

of what was and is no more

blurred memories

of times spent together

as dear freinds

now spent forever.

The trees are skeletons

beyond the cemetery gate

coated in white

their limbs weighted

by natures insulation

from the cold of the dead

below them

It is as if the bones,

buried far below,

have pressed their

way outward and

upward to taste ....

once more the sweet air of life.

All is purified

and hidden deep

under a thick blanket

woven time in

a frozen state

but my feet

know the path well.

His stone soon looms

above the thickening drifts,

but windblown snow

obscures all but

a small part

of his epitaph.

His name and the

inscription which once read:

Harold S. Nottingham

was laid to rest here,

born: September 5th, 1951

Died: in Vietnam

January 11th, 1971

forever cherished.

<3 by his Family <3

now reads:

Harold S Not
here

So I turned to go,

whispering "Semper Fi, Harry."

to a long closed chapter

of another time,

cryptically comforting me.