we slip
into drab mourning clothes
recalling how
you loved the aspens
and their mantles of gold
time
is of the essence
they say . . .
I did not know what
that meant until now
sepia hills . . .
all that remains is this
stone stairway
connecting the present
to a stranger's past
driving by
our old homestead to see
what remains . . .
bullet-riddled windows
shatter me to the bone
softened
by bluestem grasses
the sharp edge
of this prairie bluff
where we laid you down
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