It's ironic really,
how we plant people in the ground when they die.
As if we are expecting them to grow.
Like a seed.
We wait, stabbing headstones into the soil,
almost like a plant tag, identifying whether you planted basil here or tomatoes.
Will there be petals?
Long and pointed like their crooked fingers from a lifetime of labor.
What color will they be?
Deep reds and purples like the passion that once consumed their body.
Deep down we know the seed won't ever grow
We put our store bought flowers there instead.
