Gravedigging’s an art,
done right.
Granddad came from Hungary,
spade in hand,
grand-uncle István
in tow.
They knew how
to bury the dead,
shoveling dreams
during the Spanish flu,
their movements
coordinated
like a Bartók duet.
They had knowledge
of pipe smoking, too,
being very thin.
During the Depression,
Mom trimmed graves
sipping lemonade,
ragged doll nearby.
They’re all here,
I said to myself:
atop the hill,
and there,
on gentle slope,
Baby Charlie,
who died in infancy.
I walk in shadows,
alone.
Grey Sparrow Journal 