After the rush and the livewire nerves,
after the work and the crush and the stress
and all that is left is two friends hugging,
we go to the deep green grass at the edge
of town where gravestones are made of granite
and cliffs are made of sandstone,
and we all know which will erode first.
We lie in the grass beside the grave
and let the earth do all the work
of holding. The aspen leaves
tremble in the wind. It’s a roar,
but still it feels quiet. I am more
cliff than gravestone. Still falling apart.
Which means I am still human enough
to feel the afternoon sun on my skin,
how warm, how good. Still human enough
to thrill at how soft the grass is, how clear blue
the sky, how gold the petals of the sunflowers
in the vase beside the gray headstone.
Still human enough to love the scent of summer
as it, too, comes to visit amongst the graves.