by Camilla Jean Welsch
I will be forgotten, forevermore,
like all my dead friends.
I walk on them
through the grass and ivy.
I have no qualms about it anymore.
It is a respectful step.
And my dog, too, dances among them on sprightly toes.
When a wind comes
and sweeps down the slope of the hill,
I survey the lawn,
and realize how many people there are.
If only they could rise up,
I imagine then,
I could see hundreds of spirits
like soft clouds
hovering over stones and memorials,
and maybe they would twirl and mingle in the wind,
But when I walk, I behold them one on one,
and ask them:
“What were your troubles in your lifetime?”
Some of them were bigger than mine, I know…
like “Mother” and “Mother’s Little Darling”
lying side by side,