autumn wind
with the promise
of winter
whips the leaves
about the brown grass
pinning them
like butterflies
in a scrapbook
to
the wrought iron fence.

the concrete slabs
of the masoleum
seem
to suck
the remaining heat
from out of
the dying afternoon sun
emanating cold
in waves
to further wilt
the bouquets left
on faded markers.

no ghosts live
here
they linger
morosely
around the hearts
of those
that cannot
will not
forget their presence
on the mortal coil
here
everything dead
remains that way