Up on the hill
in their little boxes
so many sons
just as many daughters
in their little boxes
so many sons
just as many daughters
Up on the hill
under their crosses
all of certain age
among ferns, mosses
Up on the hill
in neat close lines
no vote no color
no humor, assigns
Up on the hill
beyond the trees
without breathing
nor the songbirds
hearing
nor watching the bees
Up on the hill
clean of green growth
families leave flowers
this side of memory moat
Up on the hill
where the thrushes breed
those there grant us
one more day to live
A.
For J., my dear dogmatic romantic friend, on his anniversary in 2021.