Bury Patch

Row after row of markers
standing in silent recall
of people who lived like we do
that we don't remember at all.

Pick one out to look at
read the name on the stone,
think of years in the future
when one of them bears your own.

Nobody's left that knew him
his witnesses too are gone
every one of his mourners
who assembled here on the lawn.

What can we leave to remember
of these lives that are so brief,
that can offset the inevitable
suffering of loss and grief.

Recollections inspiring smiles
as they think of who we were,
memories so fine and happy
for years and years will stir.

How many lives will pass before
fresh flowers cease to arrive,
when those who do so honor us
are themselves no longer alive.

The oldest part of the bury patch
has no mourners now at all,
each laid nearby eventually
as we quickly pass out of recall.


by Robert Quinn
all rights reserved