It is cold
with frost forming on what leaves remain
and few bodies participating
in the ritual of visiting these grounds
where the greens rest
if only for a season.

It is grey here, quiet.
It is a place of quiet reflection
even in brighter seasons
but now:
stately. Calm.

Between columns,
plants abide.
Soft grass struggles,
considering a future
of growth.

It will happen.
The weather will change.
The cold will die
and the land will birth anew.
All the death
will become something else.

That is something,
isn’t it?
Even in the face of all this
there is something new
to contemplate.