where the angels would walk

Here lies the grave of the little girl Grace
her little blond curls were the fruit of her race
the contour of grave meeting flowers and grass
is the line where the little feet walk slowly past
Their baby-smooth heels making less than a sound
as they trace with their toes all along the sharp ground
and water the grass with their salty pure tears
of careful contented and regretful fears
Did you know I think of dying today?
then everything else would just go away
the people who don't see me silently cry
would maybe, at last, finally come by
And point at the girl who once knew the world
who saw it for everything, great and absurd,
saw what a place is the one where we mock,
the place where the silent
finally talk
She saw it for all of its light-slanted trees
the spaces between them, the sky and the breeze
would push, just aside, for a moment or two
the leaves and their branches, where the birds flew
but there is not robin,
no blue jay,
no light.
There is just solemness, sadness, and flight.
I still cannot find where the light meets the dark
the line on the map where the angels would walk
The place where the grass meets the grave meets the sky
the place where I whisper,
the place where I die.