Sleeper, escaped from the Earth

On walking through an old graveyard we came upon a fallen tombstone shouldered under a blanket of finely maintained grass. A century of freezing and thawing has allowed the earth to take a grip on the giant slab. Endless cycles of hard Yorkshire rain has shivered the stone into the grass, deeper and deeper. Now, the stone is part sunken in these immaculately tended grounds. Overhanging the fallen stone is a tree and I imagined the occupant of the grave, long dissolved in the Earth, drawn into the fine roots of this young tree, bone becoming wood, flesh becoming leaves, weatherings of her own gravestone powdering her cheeks. Her blood has become sap and the delicate tint of cherry blossom in the spring, overlooking her own grave, escaped from the Earth, watching the slow cycle of the years. Does she shed blossom like confetti, wedded to her rest, or does she shed bitter cherries like tears?

Is she restless? Perhaps, perhaps not. But I would be content to rest in such a place.