The sunset was a pale sigh and walking through the cemetery my feet were leadlike; with darkness arriving I felt the burden of my mourning growing.
A year had passed, winter was hard but through summer I had gradually accepted your absence. My agony had been replaced with an acceptable ache and one evening in August, I even managed to smile remembering the way you had laughed at the harvest moon.
The miasma of rot and mildew is nauseating and my breath is hollow as I reach your grave.
I place the candle by your headstone and inside the comfort of its flickering orb I know my choices; only two leaves are left. This is the barrenness of harvest or pestilence.
To leave and maybe later heal, or open up my wounds to die.
The sickle-moon gives no answers; I will stay a while.
Today we write Prosery at dVerse. Write any piece of prose and incorporate the text “This is the barrenness of harvest or pestilence” which comes from Louise Glück’s poem “All Hallows”