Remembering loved ones
is like surveying the dead
years beyond the battle.
After they’re plowed under.
speechless, sightless,
as deaf as the grass, the stones,
the rain and sunshine,
the cold and snow.
They’re in the act of peace,
holding to a patch of ground
in silent knowledge
that a meadow will arise
or a wood emerge,
no longer themselves,
but each a mere sacrifice
to the greater good,
their whole, a gathering
of diverse matter,
now separating out,
seeding the ground,
the bodies of water and air.
Remembering loved ones
is being privy
to quiet, primitive life,
hidden in plain sight,
the bones, the flesh,
composted, dispersed,
but the beauty inexhaustible.
