Saint Mary's Cemetery Poem by Michael Pruchnicki

It's July now and so we visit the gravesite
to place petunias planted in plastic boxes
with the little flags and other stuff the florist
adds to soothe the weary heart.

The granite stone stands in a lonely crowd
of others on the grassy knoll near the highway.
It's a warm Sunday morning as we bend
to our task of trimming wayward weeds
and brushing off the debris blown by winds
to cover the names and dates. A final wipe
with a damp towel restores the incised
characters in the stone to brief life again.
We stand and smile in appreciation
of each other and our silent parents.