Unending

Again, we go on longer
as early daffodils do today
next to, well - next to nothing
because the house is gone
and the wall has crumbled
into an indistinct pile of rock
Every spring where the
front steps once were
this yellow reminds me
of the unending life here

Why the sea on the tide, has no way of turning*

Above an open valley, knowing always to the place where I can’t change what is or bring back a single event to re-live exactly and erase a single tear, whether spoken or not.
In the inexorable recreation of life, inexactly I am determined to honor these soft places where horses and men have failed. But I will not attempt to do what they could not.
Yet surely I will line the path with ground-pine leaves of oak, ever-blooming iris and daffodil

All of which are much older and wiser than my life and all I could ever hope to be and simply knowing this is touching and what a cemetery is to me.

*

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