Can it be nothing more than new life?

Bounding through marshes

And clover 

And buttercup

And moss

And underneath that moss

Death

Will we ever stop

Forming gaps for young children to fall through,

Teetering on the edge–          –swinging their legs. 

My grandmother's body slowly shifts into the rock, weaving into the dead texture. Eyes faded and grey, seeing more than I will ever know, and yet nothing at all.