When I was eight years of age
I lived near a forest of evergreens,
Their needles strewn across the grounds,
And rocks like headboards strewn across the grounds,
Rock paths around the slopes.
It was a lovely graveyard.
No stream, which was disappointing,
But everything was hidden in mystery
And the slopes were plentiful you know,
they wound like licorice around a finger.
Named, faceless, just a name,
And they were so hard to remember,
Especially the ones pockmarked with graffiti.
But we tried, when I was eight.
John Tuttle lived until 1956.
There is his kid.
It was a lovely graveyard.
And we picnicked there once,
Not in tribute, on a cloudy day.
It was on a Friday, I believe.
We owned a wicker basket and, luckily, food,
And a car to drive the two miles.
There were onions in the sandwiches
And there were worms below in the
Eye sockets of Frank and Mary.
And even though everyone knew where it was,
It seemed to be visible only on
Cloudy days, though the sun was bright enough
Shining unasked as it will
Over the rocks like headboards strewn across the
Grounds, caressing
the moss on the Phillips family.