Lilies lie limp at the foot of a gravestone. This touch of color has but faded all too quickly. Made inert by these winter sands of time, the flowers are shriveled and wrinkled, color fading, becoming covered by the blizzard God reigns from above. Amen. Let it be so. So that in this moment in time, wherever nature is peeking her head, we shall cover it with a brutal slap on the wrist letting her know it’s just not time yet. Old Man Winter hasn’t had his fill. It is peaceful in the graveyard, save for the Grim Reaper toward the edge of the property, blasting heavy metal and raising his scythe to the beat. In his Halloween Scream mask and wobbles his head back and forth, his black hood close to lifting off. An airplane engine interrupts the silence soaring beyond, yet so far away from touching heavens. This separation of body and soul. These people will never walk again, or open their eyes, or speak. They are dead forever. Like these lilies on the grave, they will decompose and become dust, so that when spring does come ’round, all evidence will be erased of their existence here. Feast for air and worms.