COURTNEY BUDER

Old Burial Ground (1784)

January sun glows against snow 
the way a brass horn wails,
an illumination, like finding
photos of grandparents 
I never met.
So sharp the hunger, I might vomit. 
I could linger until the sun sets,
until snow gives way
to a sigh of relief named Spring,
until the world ends, 
breathing memories
worn soft as old love letters: 
their cantabile, dolce, legato, 
implication threaded through 
remnants of loss, 
mourning, grief, and stone carved soft 
as folds of fabric, as the touch 
of a gentle hand, 
there must have been something 
worth remembering, 
something worth setting into stone. 

I kick acorns through snow, wonder:
where does the time go? 
For just a breath, the trees 
are still saplings, 
the stones intact as not-alone, 
like the time before memory 
when grief is still love, 
before grief is laid to rest.

The sun lights a path to follow, 
to guide the walk home.