Tall pine trees cuddle
The old grave yard like a child
As around the tombs they huddle
Whispering all the while
Through long needle tongues.
A canvas of greenery over head
Ever reaching toward the sky
Whispering soft green prayers over the dead
No one but God knows why
Or what was said.
Whispering voices call
Through tongues brown and raw
Until the brittle needles fall
To cover the tombs
Like brown wombs.
Then all is still
And the naked branches kneel
Tongue-less on the hill.