The lawn's grown high over
the thick padded soil that covers
the hole like the skin over a boil.
The space on the grey stone is

carved under his
mother's. The last year
on his father's have not filled
in. But he's alive and thrives

in my suffering. I've seen it
in photos, not in person.
His clothes that he wore
don't fit him. His mountainous

biceps flopped. The taut stomach
dropped. And I wonder if
he lost that wide-tooth grin. Now he
can rest/hands crossed under

his bearded chin/over his breast
without all the stress that placed him
there. Gone his worries. He's in
no hurry. At last, he's home.

He will stay put. He will not roam.
Death, the only thing tied
him down. Death itself wings,
to higher ground.