Birth and death are bookends
I see that here.
A nursery of growing trees
In ordered rows
Conjures images of gravestones
A cemetery in my mind.
I see the wildflowers cast around them
And reminisce of florists and bouquets
Placed on the graves of those I’ve loved.
Not as morbid as it sounds
Just a passing note
That birth and death
Often reminds us of each other.
