| John Grey |
| THE CEMETERY ON A SATURDAY AFTERNOON |
A little girl darts in and out of the stones.
One tiny life connects ten, twenty deaths.
Here I am trying to mourn and this child,
with a giggle and a wayward jig, puts
old bones and sorrow in their place. An
old woman nearby me mutters, “disgraceful”
as if she hasn’t danced on a grave or two
in her time. I merely place the roses carefully,
am amazed at how their stems suddenly bend,
their blooms reach toward the engraved name.
Nothing ever changes. The slopes, the mossy
grass beneath the willows, the toppling
Ebenezers of the eighteenth century, stone
angels sculpted heavenward, the young unawed,
the old checking out the accommodations,
the rest of us marking the places where
loved ones become memory, where their
survivors both go with them and remain.
One tiny life connects ten, twenty deaths.
Here I am trying to mourn and this child,
with a giggle and a wayward jig, puts
old bones and sorrow in their place. An
old woman nearby me mutters, “disgraceful”
as if she hasn’t danced on a grave or two
in her time. I merely place the roses carefully,
am amazed at how their stems suddenly bend,
their blooms reach toward the engraved name.
Nothing ever changes. The slopes, the mossy
grass beneath the willows, the toppling
Ebenezers of the eighteenth century, stone
angels sculpted heavenward, the young unawed,
the old checking out the accommodations,
the rest of us marking the places where
loved ones become memory, where their
survivors both go with them and remain.
