Weavers Square Poem by Thomas Plotz

I use to walk down the cobblestone road
To the benches, now covered with snow
Gazing out, over the slight 1meter wall
Sun-setting, illuminating

Not a park or river or grand vista view,
Nor the ocean white with foam,

This place is my cemetery,
The dead don't sleep alone,
But, I do

I'm not here, just yet
My apparitional spirit,
Still, lingers Weavers Square
As other's like me are here.

Sitting at the bench, on the far left,
Looking out, just past the short wall,
Hangs a bird feeder, not tall
From a nearby tree

It's at eye level, as your sitting,
To ponder and gaze, at
The colors of blaze,
Praise the movements of swaying trees
Bends with the blustering breeze,

Pardon me fellas, while I fill the feeder,
For our feathered friends
The finch-like sparrows, builders of woven nests

Pardon me fellas, the Headstones lay side by side
Touching without any grass shone through,
For I need to walk across you
 
Pardon me fells,
While I sit here pondering
Contemplating the way we were,

Watching birds, the sky,
My empty arms,
Thinking of you


T. Plotz
Weavers Square
13 JAN 2016