I wonder how the gravestones 

have worn in that cemetery

in Rising Son, behind 

The Church of the Brethren.

Mom and Dad and his parents,

two sets of Reverend and Missus

Hoot.  There’s cornfields and woods

and deer trails across the graves,

the granite holding minerals 

the deer try to pry loose with

their tongues.  I wonder if the deer

see the ghosts – the ones content 

to be where they are, the others

in a disarray of time and place,

the refusal of acceptance.  I have

not visited in years and worry 

about remembering how to get 

there.  In my heart it’s just a step

away – the casket, the preacher,

the living and the dead, the drive

away, the look back.  The corn 

and trees and wind.