|Primitive gravestone from the 1830's in the Smoky Mountains|
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.