Be it unsung notes or syllables
unrolling aloud, those who have gone

on before me somehow
return in the emerald

hills smoothed by mist
and edged by ocean,

in lichened stone walls
and deep russet bogs, rounding

the sharp edges of grief, polishing
and burnishing sorrow to make it

treasure or touchstone, something to hold,
to carry, just one small portion of all that I am.