Arriving with Pansies

What you decide not to say
you forget how to say,
and what moved you is exhaled, but left unsaid 
Might I be dead
before the unsaid is allowed to breathe
before I may grieve
And then when the words are heard
or perhaps are read,
perhaps simple dates or facts may hurt
someone still living inside unsaid,
holding their breath
Memories of the dead and what they decided 
not to say
before going away

Promises made
while never said
standing over the names of the dead
a hand on the shoulder and,
in a moment where
no word can be heard, I find
I’m holding my breath
amidst all the names I’ve read above teetering dates
arriving with pansies, and with folks that say
nothing, so much
as stern looks from squinted eyes
Are things not said lies?
Is it any surprise we’re not told
what to fear, but rather, we’re shown,
every year, wondering who waters the flowers
and with what tears?