These monuments, they speak to me  
in shadowed figures set in stone
recording births and deaths in solemn tones.

I shiver with the wildness of this place,
awed how time reclaimed a haunted spot
of sacred ground, neglected – now forgotten –
family plot.  

My boots crush meadow grass,
and trumpet vine assaults the rusted fence,
sharp evidence no one comes
to tend this place of pine box memories
lost to verdant fields and pin oak trees.