on many a lazy
summer evening
we would hike
to varnum cemetery
and our favorite spot
on the hill’s north slope
where cool green grass
beneath the vaulted
cathedral-like ceiling
of sugar maples
and soaring white oaks
made it the perfect place
for gazing at those
few bright stars
able to peek through
shadowy leaves swaying
slowly in the breeze.
and for long stretches
of time we remained
quietly lost
in each other’s
thoughts.
at times i would wonder
what any ghosts
might think had they
awoken from their graves
and bothered to stay
long enough to watch
us mimicking
their silent repose
while lying on the slope,
or if we somehow
disturbed their peace
with discussions
on ee cummings
or death as rebirth
given the eternity
of our souls
so late into the night
and only a few feet
above their final
resting place
and long after anyone
who might care
that they were buried there
had gone.
of course, there
was no way to foresee
how ten years would pass
before your mom
laid you to rest
on that very spot of grass
when winds blew cold
and stripped all leaves
from the canopy
of trees
saying how it felt right
without ever knowing
about those many nights
spent beneath pristine
summer skies
on such hallowed ground,
and where your granite
stone now marks the slow
passage of time
like all the rest
accumulating dust
while the essential part
of you flew far away
seeking a new horizon
to resume the journey
once again.
