Soundlessly, she waits, in the thicket of green vines, and
pink roses, for the strangers who will
come on horse, or car, or jeep—to the encrusted
grave where she sleeps.
There might be a tree, where a
child might read and write new places,
never knowing her story underneath, nor
the lover beside her: hands reaching
for each other, through the mud, and dirt
and metal boxes.
No kiss. No touch.
Just sleeping beautiful.