Here's Your Hat What's Your Hurry
Granitic testaments
sprout unstoppable
over the hill.
I know by heart
the graveyard.
Next to the wall
first maple on the left
past the bell tower,.
our stone stands,
room for one more.
Will my final twinkling
come quick, unexpectedly,
or slowly dressed in gray breaths
as mourning doves nest
in the eaves?
In any case, don’t feel obligated to
visit my engraved memory
under which I’m really not.
If you do, when you go
leave the gate firmly latched.
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