In the morning
A fire burns at the foot of the wind
Etched marker containing
An unreadable name
In the Autumn afternoon
A scorched bottle and scattered ashes
Remain under the stone
A cracked marble cross
Wedged in the fork of a tree
Markers crouch around it
Like Mayan frogs
Under the sycamores
Broken white sandstones
Lean and fall with age
Chipped inscriptions
A man raking leaves
In the winter there are only
Dark heads on the snow
