She promised me poetry on my grave.
Or at the very least, to try and behave.
And as she stood there in the rain she made good.
I write my own poetry on a piece of wood.
Time yet not for a bed of dirt.
her words only echo they do not hurt.
Sifting through these ashes I found the words,
Bringing to page the largest of birds.
In my noblest of efforts to think ahead of my pen.
My thoughts drift back to her again.