I park beside my mother’s grave
whenever I get the chance.
She’s way out in the country
where by-passers cannot glance.

That’s just fine I think for me,
so I can hear the quiet.
I hear no voice particularly–
grass, trees, bits of granite.

Such tiny stones can speak a tale
of home and life as it once was:
when she would laugh and see me whole
before the world had turned me black;

the black I became when I return
to the day the doc pulled her plug.
I thought there’s no light when she’s gone,
now I will only see through fog.

Mysterious as it seems, when foggy days
hug the ground and earth has little splendor,
a few things like grass show me ways
to look for her still young and slender.

Something about the forgotten body,
when dirt and dust pile around us,
has a way of unearthing a melody
that jumps and skips so celebrous.

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