All gone, wandering beyond
valley brambles, slate
splintering like overworn bone.

Today is for pine smoke pulled taut
around half-horned fog
melting beneath canopy light
where short, shallow graves
shelter my darling
and her darling aside–
Slow-rotting wood their marker,
loose-brindled earth between.

It was an emaciated December
I saw her, oft-starved,
little ember between thick spruce, black earth
pushed beneath her nails.
Still alight, sowing
her years into the hillside

She carved a house from dark oak,
lined it with rosemary sprigs and dried marigold petals
made warm enough from her woodstove
and cursed indifferent winters.
Here was her peace, set deep into earth,
limestone obelisks which rub fine dust onto your finger–
softening with slumping candles.