The stones look good today
the crew must have mowed
all sections at the same time
for usually one section will be neat
while others grow several shaggy inches.

Tires crackle up the dirt lane,
layered banks of stones slope down to the sides,
the path, stretching up past the receiving tombs
(where we had picnics in the summer as children)
is long, and the cow pasture empty now,
hollow ceramic conductors silent
along the tumbled fence.

No peaceful balm of spirit to come here.
Instead, I feel irritated I haven’t come more,
and irritated too, I must come again,
another trip added to forty Springs
each one, and each Summer too,
a full schedule of plant, pluck, weed, water.

I’ve outlived you both, an older woman
instead of your child
carrying water from the station wagon
with dry hands, graying hair,
something neither of you lived long enough to have;
my black-haired beauties, lying peacefully
under rake and shovel.