Cemetery: Norcross, Georgia Poem by James P. Roberts

Graves of the old
and the young
black sharecroppers.
Graven stone
long weathered by time
and scouring wind-
storms.
The weeds hide names and dates
of those born without a name
and those who died ageless.
Canted over on the wrinkled
hillside, these mute
testaments to decades-long labor
and shed blood
seem to watch the plot of land
that houses the dead
dust.
Long-fingered willows spread
shelter above
as their roots pry at the bones
beneath.
On a quiet, moon-washed street,
the graveyard
waits
and waits.