Standing At My Grave

Under the winter
day’s whispery glow,
all is quiet here.
The is my shattering.
No more hymns of breath.
Just waiting beside my tombstone.
Dressed wildly in vines of time.
Had you been a ghost too,
would you have noticed me?
Must death be the only way?
Bound now to a casket,
may I escape this grave
to speak to you now?
It has been so long.
Warm this mausoleum
with your gaze.
See me. See me, now.