We form them, but they, in turn,
Shape us. Graves in crop fields turn
Out to be safe spots for lives
In threat from us and from our
Way of pared-down kinds of life.
Near death, near our own dead flesh,
Waived lengths of life that teemed once,
We tread less. Our steps are light
Where we come to pay our griefs,
We with a yen for the lost
Of us, who want them, their names,
Their ghosts, their souls, to come back,
To float from where we sunk them
And tell us what we should do,
What it means, where they got to,
Where we’ll go. Most of the year,
We leave our graves to their peace,
And if we don’t get the ghosts
We’d hoped, small lives, plants and bugs
Thrive in the shade of our loss,
Of what we left as set off
For what we were. The grass waves.
