Listen to me, little cat.
While I tell the tale of that
which makes the willow tree
weep for thee and me.

In the early morning hours
I confided to the flowers
as dew settled on the graves
I'll not come back to ye-

The head stones are imaginary.
All are scuffed by earth's graffiti-
for spirits have no coffins
and smiles cant be snuffed.

Still the graveyard exists,
where yesterday's love remains.
And as we tramp on through the mists,
We let losses die to make room for gains.

This I tell you, little cat-
As in my lap you stretch your paws
"Past Love's Death Wears New Hat"
It is safe to now retract your claws.