Matt Daly

Last night's wind did most of the work.
Left a hard crumb crust against the line
where we sunk her gravestone. No name
for the place where trunk becomes root.

I wonder if she can still feel our gusts
through the side of the bluff, tickling
chokecherry roots the boy's dad chose
to plant. Wind crawls under my gloves.

It's not a bad day to clear snow
from her grave, sun on its low arc.
Cold burns my cheeks a little,
red like the night the boy was born.

I don't have the heart to tell her
how ragged the chokecherry looks
after these last few easy winters.

She knows though the boys seem lost
to us, all come to rest beside us,
soon or even sooner.