where memories sit with bone dust

there is no grave
when you burn the dead,
no place to visit
and keep a flower,
no place to sit and cry,
only memories
sitting with bone dust
become earth,
growing leaves and stones,
speaking into the silence
veiling the worlds,
where everything's uncovered,
where you and I
look into the hollows,
for that holy communion
with the dark,
listening to those whispers
lingering,
in the spaces
between sounds,
of the living
and the dead.