Early Departure Poem by Sonny Rainshine

Blood red
is the color of the leaves
on the sycamore in the cemetary
where gardenia beds
and peace lilies
permeate the air
with the aroma of grief.

You were born on the Day of the Dead,
and by night
you would lie here in this bed,
a cradle of unfulfilled dreams,
a repository of silent laughter
and youthful tears.

For those who mourn you,
every day is November first,
a calendar full of ones,
a year-ful of autumns.
Their days are still-born,
their nights starless.

Tomorrow they will plant
tulips and narcissus bulbs
on your grave
and dare to imagine spring
and the renewal of hope
under the blood red leaves
of the towering sycamore.