Under turf turned wide and silver wet,
under the understated brass plaque,
deep in the sod,
deeper in me,
not somewhere over there,
but beyond even my losers’ reach.
At the end of all your summers
they placed you among the married headstones,
some still sharp carved,
some blunt with moss,
to the left,
yesterdays patchwork grass knits together,
to the right,
weeds outgrow the flowers,
but I will remember you,
the rain on your last smile
and your fondness for saying
“nothing lasts forever”.
With the sun and you in my eyes
I can’t decide which hurts the most.
© D. Archer. September 2013.