It's a cold, rainy November day
as I stand among the graves.
The misty fog hugs the earth,
covering the stones with an eerie, ghostly shroud.
​
​This part of the cemetery is wildly overgrown,
matted with dead leaves of autumns long ago.
Moss covers the markers,
turning them into final headstones of the unknown.
​
​A cold November biting wind
cuts to the bone
as a single dead leaf breaks free from a barren tree.
Its naked branches reach up like bony fingers
silhouetted against the gray late-autumn sky.
​
​That lone leaf comes to rest before me
on a forgotten grave.
The only proof of these lives are their worn stones,
showing dates of birth and their last breath.
​
​Yet they, too, lived, laughed, and loved.
Like you and me, they pondered the mysteries of life.
No amount of time can erase the lives they lived
or dry the tears they shed.
​
​Why I have come, these spirits must ponder.
In my thoughts, I apologize for awakening them.
Ghostly apparitions rise from the dancing mist,
seeking why I came, but my answer is unknown.
​
​The wind carries their gentle whispers,
lingering here in the quiet air.
Time will eventually wear their headstones clean,
erasing their names forever.
​
​A gentle breeze stirs my hair,
a sign they are pleased I spoke their names.
For a moment, I gave them life,
reminding me that death awaits us all.
​
​Someday, someone will stand by my grave
and look down at my worn stone,
wondering what was my name
and the kind of life I lived.
​






© 2026
Arthur E. Knowles
All Rights Reserved