Night breathes slowly here

sighs as it wraps around

the marble stones

rounded edges softened

by so much time.

The wind is patient as

it rustles through the ivy

that climbs the iron gates

and brushes the names

etched deep, each letter

a song once sung

but now silent.

An owl calls out

from an oak

curious lullaby, its

echoes wrapping

around the branches

where shadows fall asleep.

You touch the stone of

an old angel,

her wings smooth,

worn by rain,

hands folded

in forever prayer.

The night sky spills

stars like seeds

and you feel them

almost

planting themselves

in your open palms.

The moon lingers

a bit longer,

the silver light pools

at your feet,

and the breeze brushes by,

carrying only

the scent of lilacs

blooming

even now.