Graves and the Accent of You

Morning breaks fidgety nights into bite-size remnants.

In the haze before dawn I assess the coffee situation and am not in the least surprised to find exactly one cup of day-old coffee left in the pot. The early bird does not catch the coffee-worm ever.

“Abundant sunshine” on the way.

In all the stillness, in all the quiet, it is easier to not-do. Who does that serve? This and other erected crosses.

He said, “life isn't all blow jobs and daffodils” and I couldn't help but hear it in the accent of you.

I don't think twice about licking dill relish off the plate.

A story: I took the dog for a walk and saw my friend on the street. In front of a man and his dark green house, she and I caught up on family stuff. In the man's garage, a Confederate flag breathed a little in the stir of a May breeze and cigar smoke. The man from the dark green house sat in his driveway in a seat removed from his truck and after five minutes or so, turned on his sprinklers and laughed as we scattered further down the street to avoid getting wet. I asked my friend about the full sized grave stone in the man's front yard and she said it is in memorial of his deceased wife.

Graves and who attends.

I saw this article about people who plant living things at graves instead of bringing dead flowers, which was kind of cool but then, in order to keep the plants alive, one would have to visit a lot and maybe that is not always feasible or even desirable. And then there would be even more death to consider which gets a little heavy in a hurry.

In the quietest whisper, like mist rising from a summer pond at dawn, I would have gone with you.

A heron tip-toes without rippling the shallows, watching, feeding, contented with itself . . . it's like that. Stillness and all.