The old part of the cemetery reminds me of a stormy sea. Nothing is right. The graves of the heel. Foundations bend, crumble, sometimes collapsing. Are all askew. The roots have lifted the flagstones. The gel has cracked the stone. Crosses lose a limb. Others are lying, broken into several pieces. Wave wins granite. The headstones dot the brown foam. Lichens yellow gold fuse as tasks watercolor. One wonders if this is not the dead that challenge the gravel in search of air and freedom and that strength of perseverance they succeed. The dead love the stars.
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