Clean Dirt
The grave’s too new
headstone’s too new
granite and liver-flocked pink,
to fit in
Standing here gains slightly
from the ground that’s green
the saw-mill sounds across the highway
that wouldn’t have bothered my father.
The next space waits
with my mother’s name.
This story has no moral,
a World War Two plaque and one
cut stem of Peace rose in a borrowed vase.
Stumble It!