All Dead's Day

just a bone, a tiny bone
white and polished by years
just lying there by the marker
of a dead person six feet down

is it a thumb
maybe its the middle finger
park of a knuckle
or just the tip where the ring used to be

does it matter
who cares now
its over and done with
its dead, as dead as a nail

why nail though
it never had a life
but its as stiff as the finger
a nail on a finger... get it

the bone though, who's is it
it twitches a little
as if its looking for a name
it has long forgotten

its the old dead's day today
there are people praying
around grave markers nearby
they grieve again, shed tears

they place fresh dying flowers
they unwittingly decapitate from their bushes
dying blooms for the dead
an apt tribute, even as they walk away

a pink petal falls from a bloom
and settles near the bone
and together they stay there
companionably fading together

as the sun goes down
and dies in the gathering dusk.