Grave mound

An oak will grow out of me.
It will sprout from my eyesight
And start the way up through the canopy
It will overhang the mound and make a shade
The beam of the sun's rays through the cloud and canopy will sink to me
And spilled on the damp moss
I'll be there and I will not exist anymore
In remembrance, it will be mentioned sometimes that I once existed
Moody and rigid
Angry at a world not made for quitters
In late autumn, field mice will revive me
playing hide and seek in a pile of leaves
I will finally shut up and no one will ask me why