Find me at the edge of the yard.
Just some body, nearby to that
Neat, still burning constellation.
–
Curling leaves shuffle in the wind,
Circling the well-kept stones before
Trending towards the crude border.
–
Beneath the proud, silent branches
They found a plot for aching bones,
Wrapped up in their ancestral mud.
–
Now, as then, the ground they walk on.
“A friend of this family”:
Words that injure this offbeat plot.
–
Calloused hands that worked in service
To those callous and pedantic hearts,
Kept close to bare the weight of myths.
–
So speak aloud the fading name,
Worked into the moss-wearing stone
When it still stung the hearts of men.
–
Listen to the ringing church bell,
Whose sound barely touches humble ground
Here, at the edge of the yard.
