This is a graveyard,
I think to myself
as I walk into a clearing
in the forest.
The little houses are made from the forest,
names, beginnings, and ends label each.
1972 is falling. 2012 is not.
Birkenstocks and a bicycle hang from the trees
and a father behind me says to his child,
“This is where they remember people who have passed away,”
and the child is scared.
“Don't be scared; it's beautiful.”
This is a graveyard,
I think to myself
as I walk into a clearing
nestled in the tall, skinny trees, clacking in the cool wind.
This is a graveyard,
the happiest graveyard.
It's beautiful.
