Day of dead poem.

Day of the Dead.

by Misha Dawn 

They came like trees in fall, strong and colorful.
Change visual in the light shades of their hair and the lines around their eyes.
They came and sat quietly as birds sang loud songs of protest from the tree tops.
The uninvolved lines circled the the green, the church,
and alone,
circled the quiet rooms
filled with the smell of impermanence.

There was some among them that were small.
Today, all returned, and marched to drums, and bells, and dancers.
Everyday they can be heard in wind in treetops
and quiet exhales of love.