Irrespective, oblivious, rude as I visit all my cousins, once removed. Might I enumerate the desolate, too vast these legions that have passed. Stacked like yearwood, each plot accounted and allotted, in a tight crowd of shrouds. She and I are not enough alone, beset by care-less caretakers, and jammed between a swarm of standing stones. But one step away, coarse players follow the course of their plays, caught up in and upon their swifter stage.
Memory spurns the turns and twistings, listing each mistake, each frail and familiar betrayal.
Yet part of me so knows the Way, that I fade and find myself Here every day. Here, again with eyes that will never rise, Downcast. Or There again, beside the bed where she breathed her last. The wind howls, stinging sleet upon the stone, cowled I kneel at last alone, content to feel the pelting penance. The wind attacks my proffered back, slowly sodden my facade, my stoic cloak is slowly soaked, as sighing sleet seeps, it seems that I do not weep, alone.