Flowers piled with thought against a common fence:

pretty posies, some struck with shades of green,

and roses, many varied roses, reds and pinks,

and white chrysanthemums that set the mood,

some fresh and new, just lying against the others

as they keep coming with tearful pausing as if in

silent prayer, some marked now with the first

brown signs of age—but none moving, all assembled

neatly and heaped gently as gestures against a school

fence, and none moving, resident, even after days.


Who could move them now—who could move them ever?