At my father’s grave
I stand on the berm
over his chest
his holes filled with dirt and time
a clear vantage point
for
peering into my holes.
The earth rising-constantly
strata filling
with generations
of fathers and sons.
Soldiers, plumbers, thieves
Estranged, beloved
Sharing
the same moon light on cool etched stone
night after night.
Epitaphs
at my head board:
Loving father,
provider
Dedicated son.
A breeze carries
a warmth
from that lower ground,
it’s a quiet wind,
so I can
sleep –
blanket half shorn
One leg in
one leg out.
The ground rises to meet me
daily
As I fall preparing
a spot
for my son to stand
compacting the dirt
in my holes