Near

Headstones bloom
a lilac
sudden as barnfire,

and
that's life.

Our legs
carry us between
the slate

in grass as tall
as Black Hawk
on his horse.

Near waves now

after all those
creeks
emptied into
silence;
saplings bent
and staked
wrong way
to the trail.

All those dirty tricks.

Now and then
we take a count
and come up short,
or come up long;

an extra shadow in the
carriage of the gloaming,

his form familiar,
yet hidden to us
as we beat our way
out beneath
a blanket of stars.

In dreams,
seraphs push dirt into the fire
and urge us on.

In the morning,
the ending of all things
is near to us,
and hangs thick with
hope and dread
in the cold, final mist.