The dead are whispering

with the fallen leaves,

their voices dry and rasp.

 

Moths in a spider’s web;

the bodies shriveled

but papered wings hold fast.

 

At tide’s edge, waves rise high

up and over the sand

where driftwood bones are cast.

 

And the moon overflows

a dark eastern sky

filled with copper and brass.

 

This, the day of the dead

is upon us all—

death over life surpassed.

 

Pamela Olson, 10/31/08

 

 

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