Cemetaries are the most romantic places that exist in this society. They have become a haven for old growth trees and offer a peace and quiet that seem out of place. They are never popular destinations, for some reason, although they typically offer fascinating information for the individual willing to piece it all together. The years offer a window into a world that has passed us by here in the present. The words offer a glimpse of emotion that can only be interpreted by the individual willing to stop, read, and reflect on them. The uneven ground demands close attention. The grass speaks of ages of growth, whether manicured or unkempt. If you allow your imagination to wander, you begin to envision the cellular structures emanating from the soil content below the ground, supplying a source of nutrients to evolve into massive, sinewy trunks that make faces and wink at you when you turn your eyes away from them. Then you realize the cemetary has ears, but no mouth. It listens without response. It waits without demand. And, for the attentive person, it enfolds welcomingly. It becomes expectant.