The grave of your father grew a cactus, you took it as a sign,
which you didn't know the meaning of until your heart was mine.
The cactus came year after year; you dug it out each time.
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I really love this one, Christine, for many reasons. The rhyme and craft of the poem are both sound and the metaphor of the cactus on the grave is delightful. I, however, have an added reason to love it. My father is buried in an Arizona gravesite way out in the desert...with only cactus to decorate his grave. Nice work. Raynette
Great words Christine, I shall bookmark as a favorite. I am a lover of cactus as I live in desert country. read your work, impressive. Charles Garcia