Grave Stone

Primitive gravestone from the 1830's in the Smoky Mountains

          Grave Stone

So that the dead might always

be able to see mountains circled with clouds

and fog, spiraled by hawks and the currents

they ride, we bury each of our gone

ones as high as we can astride hillsides.

We bring to their chiseled names

flowers and muttered words, sometimes

our songs, if our throats have been loosened

from sorrow at last.  We lie down

in the spring grass beside them.  We stand

in the snow, all a'shiver with emptiness.

Summer we scatter our memories

over their slabs,  our dusty hands

opening onto another day's leave taking.