Grave (Poetry)

A robin on a tombstone
a moth upon a wall
a slanting sun to frame them
a heart to keep them all
hoarded — sharp as snapshots
filed among the years
since the last rose has faded
and winter skies hang drear.

A snowflake on a grass stalk
a withered ivy leaf
moss that eats departing words
a name lost underneath
she sleeps in frozen twilight
few visitors today —
a robin flits from grave to grave
the moth now flown away.