The grey entourage weaves its way
From red stone kirk
To red stone kirk.
Right turn, up Plank Hill;
Right turn, into a field of stones
Bounded by winter trees.
We gather at the small memorial,
A row of chairs
In which three sisters sit.
Timeless words are brief.
The wind tears at the delicate pages.
Somehow—I know not how—
The salted ashes remain.
I raise my eyes above bent heads
To winter trees beyond—
Victims of last fall’s storm,
Now a tangle of broken branches
And bittersweet: widow-makers.
2012 © Brian T. Maurer
"Widow-maker" by Brian T. Maurer
