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

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