We gather in clumps, like weeds
that grow from a common root.
Small laughs and everyday events
spill out of careful mouths. Tongues
wag in all directions but there is nothing
heard of winding sheets or face painting,
nothing about how the soil absorbs us.
On the fallow grass, we gather
in a protective huddle and listen
as the leaves rustle and resist.
Soon, the delicate fall drizzle
softens them and they become mute
in their struggle with the wind.
It is over. The rain has stopped
and we wander, like fallen leaves
blowing in the autumn chill, careful
not to rush or look at the sky.
I watch the last black car ease into the street,
place pebble on stone and read the facts
carved for strangers like me. A few leaves
lay still, nestled against the fresh soil.
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