Anniversary
Today, this smooth stone set in the earth is my sister.
This etched granite marker is each memory I have:
Slick, absolute edges are the thoughtful gifts.
The caligraphy of her name, a birthday card
hiding a five-dollar bill.
Its cold engraved surface is the depth of her.
The graceful date is our last conversation.
Pebbles and twigs, embedded in the ground,
fashion a frame.
She hated having her picture taken.
Hundreds of cars have
passed carrying
faceless, cell-phoned, mouth-bodies oblivious.
I kneel and receive damp dark
evidence on my pants from the soil.
As the grass drinks up its afternoon cocktail,
the bartender sprinklers mistake me for a freeloader
and do their best to force me to leave.
I am not as lush as the foliage here.
I trace the indents with a finger,
stopping to clean out the C.
Unannounced and
gravity laden, my drops
finish the job.
I hope the drunken earth is still thirsty.
- Sept. 2002
