During the long winter the town cemetery is chained off,
Two thick cables across each entrance to insure
That foolhardy drivers don’t attempt the hill that divides
The new from the old sections.
The upper half, the “New Cemetery” as it’s called,
Offers more level ground with polished graves,
As if “new” somehow made a difference to those resting there.
Anyone who knows the difference prefers the old, lower section,
With stones leaning this way and that
And inscriptions that are barely visible on some.
Old stones offer personality, truth be told--
Even the names seem more real: Caleb, Ezekiel, Matilda.

I think of them there through those cold gray months,
Blanketed in snow disturbed only by the occasional deer walking through.
I know it shouldn’t matter but I feel sad for them all
Forced to suffer through that blank desolation,
Denied the warmth of sun or the curious gaze of some passerby.
As if death weren’t bad enough, the white loneliness of snow
Drifting over their one last piece of property
Seems a cruel and unnecessary gesture on the part of the world they left.
As if to say, “You’re still mine to treat as I will, alive or dead.”

That’s why, when the weather turns and the cables come off
I make it a point to pass through each day on my way to work.
The snow, gone now, lets the earth breathe again,
And I can’t help but think that, with the trees about to sprout
And green grass just around the corner,
That life has its place here too, even among the dead,
And that I’m not the only one waiting for longer days and a warmer wind.

A Barbie lies on the rug, limbs at impossible angles and missing a shoe.
Next to her, a truck with three wheels, a faery with only one wing, and a
Broken necklace announce the whimsical and ephemeral love of a four year-old.
The room shows a trail, meandering and disordered, the work of only a single day.
There will be ***** socks to wash, a tutu that was forgotten as soon as the dance was done,
A row of dishes smelling vaguely of rosemary, and a hapless doll left floating in a bowl of water.
The girl’s absence becomes all the more palpable because of what she left behind.
Is Truth a night spent studying the stars, listening to the secret whispered by the sound of waves,
Or is it the detritus of a child’s play waiting to be picked up and put away?