Year of writing 193.

7/12/12

The story was told in pieces
grave by grave.
This one was an important man,
the font stands proudly straight -
perfectly spaced across the smooth
granite marker.
Here a child lay, there is no name -
just a simple wooden plank;
a chipped plaster angel with no features,
a faded teddy bear tile near the base.
Oak leaves cover every inch of the cemetery,
a prickly blanket for those who rest.
They crunch underfoot, the little girl
waving her hand in front to clear cobwebs
from the path stops to pull one from her shoe.
"What about this one, daddy?"  She asks,
fingers trailing over brass embossed letters.
"James Engle."  I say, "He was 80 when he died."
"I think he was a happy man, daddy. 
his stone is warm, it doesn't feel so hard as the rest."