What is this graveyard but where we came
with our papers and stubs of charcoal,
to catch the image of their names
and dates, homework for a field trip?
What is this cemetery but home
to kids who mostly never lived past four?
A child was pushed out nearly
every year by this mother Sandra Collins,
‘dearest mother’, 1848-1869.
Four little plots lie close to hers.
What is this graveyard
but where my parents lie,
the earth their blanket?
What is this graveyard but my future
whose emptiness I can never
quite cover up with mere grass?
Where I came last year to place dahlias
in Mom’s vase, and to talk with her…
I ache even now for her voice
which I no longer can recall.
What’s this graveyard but a reminder
of what’s missing from my life,
and how I too one day
will be missed?
