If kneeling to touch the graves of my friends,
the moss has not yet moved between the incisions
left in the ground, I will know there are children
who continue to bring the sad mysteries of their hearts
to this place above these tombstones;
children who speak their questions in voices so soft,
only the dandelions can hear them now
If in deep August, clouds of grey
move through the valley, leaving gossamer trails
of grief on my ankles, I will not stop to gather
the hens from beneath the eaves;
I will not forget to walk this stony garden
collecting the leaves that settle
with the weight of continuity
If the visitor who knelt here before me
has left seven mandarin oranges,
I will bite away wax and skin
and leave the sweet fruit for the sparrow
who, perched like the psalmist,
folds the beauty of this place
into a song only God can understand
An aspen grove, from above,
appears to be many yellow trees
but when the heat of the Colorado plateau
places fires between the fingers
of the Trembling Giant,
I will remember that an aspen grove
is truly one tree
that for eighty thousand years
has refused to let go
If in a blizzard I come to your graves
wearing only the thin dress I don in my sleep,
lead me back to the aspens
where one day a girl will find
the small emblem of my spine
sprouting from the sky above the mountains,
touching the embers of these trees
I could not wait to burn after the spring.
The ending of this one is lovely.
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