The old woman working
Recognized my mother,
Saying she remembers
My grandparents.
Her blue-veined hands
Picked out the heaviest
Chrysanthemums.
She looked to us and smiled,
Sharing that they were strong
And would look nice
Against the gray headstones.
She placed them in an empty
Plastic bottle and wished us
All the best.

II.
On the bus, the flowers
Sway in my hands
Losing a few petals
Beside the ripped vinyl seats.
We drive down roads
Of torn skin,
Pockmarked
And discolored.

III.
The gloss of the chalky granite
Has softened from years of rain
And the weight of snow.
I pour the water
And watch as
the cracks begin to darken
Then bleed down the stone
Beside their names,
Around the years,
Then into the overgrown weeds
At our feet.

IV.
As we pick up the spades
And kneel down to our knees,
The sparrows gather above us,
Fly up in dark spurts,
Then dip towards the fields
Just past the gate.
Our hands fold
In prayer for
A moment,
Then we find
The roots
And pull.