A weeping willow bows
by the bench at the cemetery
where I sit and contemplate
the grave before me
and the mystery of being.
Branches creak above,
Threatening to fall on the dead
and I,
Calling me to fall as well.

What if I were dead,
My body decomposed 6 feet beneath
this very tree,
And the grave's inhabitant were
alive
Sitting right here
Contemplating me?