STONES

An old cemetery, really not too
Old as these things go, is cut into the forest
Behind the little white church.

I walked there on a clear and cool
Mountain day to look at the stones, some
Bearing my family name.

Passing souls all.

The oldest markers were from late in
The century before cars and all the roads
That carry them.

Then, in those days, it was a wagon that
Hauled a body to these burying
Grounds, or if a child, someone’s loving arms.

Passing souls all.

Many of the stones bear the dates
Of the great epidemic when the raging flu
Took so many children.

Two sisters and a brother my father never knew
Bear those dates. Small
Markers for small children.

Passing souls all.

Those years were a time of war an ocean
Away but there was no way to fight for the little ones
Long gone from the little town.

Many stones are missing from this disorderly field
Or worn to smoothness by years of harsh
Winter wind and snow.

Passing souls all.

Many lives now unmarked and no longer
Remembered have left only the faintest impressions
On this grassy ground.

Some markers are still strong and shiny
Sitting up over others who bore my family name.
Some have a blank for that final date.

Passing souls all.

On one side of the clearing a small niche catches
My eye. Just inside the trees an old wooden cross
Hand carved a single name, a date.

The name is Simmons the date looks like 1937
Or maybe nine. An unfamiliar name in this town
Of French and Irish and Slav.

Passing souls all.

And how does this wooden marker still stand after
So many years when granite has faded and
Disappeared into hollows and gardens?

In truth someone came later, perhaps a son or
Daughter, to mark that last bed of a long dead
Parent, remembered a little.

Passing souls all.

But the price of stone was too high so wood from
Nearby trees was fashioned into this
Cross for this grave.

But this wood marked grave is outside the lines
And limits of the registered and written
Down citizens of the cemetery.

Passing souls all.

Perhaps a mystery is waiting for unraveling
Here behind the little white church whose missing
Parishioners will not talk.
Passing souls all.