A train’s ample whistle blows away sunset
propelling it into night while sister moon
rolls her holy call over rows of stone—
chiseled out letters trapped in granite.
A montage of markers reflects her arrival
as jasmine’s blooms put on a glow.
Answering Luna’s holy call,
faeries and demons tag their earthly domain
with dust and bedevilment.
Riding the whistles of trains,
they chase circles around granite angels and headstones.
Jostling for position, they scrap amidst jasmine,
and release her sweet sacred scent.
They prune her petals into opalescent piles,
to dive through again and again
adding sugar and spice
and evil and nice
to this resting place for the dead.
Brenda Warren 2012
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