The Garden of the Dead

In the garden of the dead.
Solemn angels, marble saints
broken crosses, silent lambs,
in shades of white and ghostly gray,
taken root in well trod soil.

Row by row in measured distance,
these sentinels of human history.
Their hardiness stands testament,
to origins of mountain quarries.

No sustenance is needed here,
warmth of sun, quenching rain
nor shelter from winter's icy winds.
They stand together yet alone.

Each one boasts a date of planting,
as well as each a different name.
Existing in perpetual bloom,
yet no one comes to pluck these petals.

Gazed upon by tear filled eyes,
reaching out across the chasm,
often crying in a whisper;
My time with you was not enough.
In the garden of the dead.