I found you prostrate
framed by a gravestone’s shadow
marking here to there
like some holy guardian of an other-world
making its fragiled soul-way
groping to nirvana in lotus-spread,
listening for that note
rising above all else.
You feed water and solace
to delicate youth in borrowed space
as I peer through Kenneth Coles
in that awful summer of grave hunting
to circumspect ascended Masons
displayed carvings of I-80 villages and ravines
the once prairie people who crossed water
searching for the hard, real story
in granite and floppy limestone
reconstruction between periods
lifted up by carefully crafted words
played like a perpetual scrabble as solitaire
over and over and over and over.
Till I ran back east to my river home
and hid from this tale that would not
Let me be.
Your bluegray plume arrived this morning
left on a rusted paver’s stone
when an eagle pair called out your mission
and choreographed their wide arc
smattered by a pelican V
invading the common ground
when you sent that clear sound of July
rejoined with the unburied
encased somewhere above it all.