Grave mound

Grave mound

An oak will grow out of me.
It will sprout from my eyesight.
And start the way up through the canopy.
It will overhang the mound and make a shade.
The beam of the sun's rays through the cloud and canopy,
will sink to me, and spilled on the damp moss.
I'll be there, and I will not exist anymore.
In remembrance, it will be mentioned sometimes that I once existed,
moody and rigid.
Angry at a world not made for quitters.
In late autumn, field mice will revive me,
playing hide and seek in a pile of leaves.
I will finally shut up, and no one will ask me why.