With its double doors
swung wide and its mower
rolled out and parked beside bags of
spring grass seed, the open cemetery shed
makes each grave
seem yet more sealed, more
weighted down by the hard ground,
the gardener’s ministrations to the earth’s mere surface
exposed, those deep below
tended only by the natural force—
cleansing as wind on the headstones—
of handed-down remembrances until the dead
are swept of
all particulars except their
role with regard to the living, so become
blank and beautiful, icons of generational endurance,
each clan—when gathered
for a new, troubling internment—
peering close to an old stone for the solace
that rises from the polished monument buried below.
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