In crunchy leaves
curled like claws,
a dried white stone
guards weeds
and bones;
eternal laws
in names
etched away by rain
and drying shafts
of browning
grass and weeds.

A scent of sour
pumpkin seeds
and smoke from afar
wafts in and recedes
on a wind.
The dower of decay
leaves a lingering
last hint
of formaldehyde
and flowers.

Amid the seasons
of the grass
before it masses
into sands,
the sentinel
stands and waits
as immortal memories

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling


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