The full moon rises above the headstones,
The restless, lost begin to stir.
The ground shimmies as they struggle to rise,
Desiring to walk the earth again.

Each month the beams call to them,
But the night ends before they reach the top.
Occasionally a hand breaks through the soil,
But the looming sunrise forces them back.

What if the night lasted a little longer?
What if the sun was late to rise?
Would any make it through the soil?
To ‘live’ again and walk beside us?

Roy Richard
June 2023