by Andy Mitchell
We cross deep grass wondering why
it hasn’t been mowed this week of all weeks.
When we reach the grave we notice
the little tree beside the stone
has grown considerably. It wears seven
They’re not gold. They’re not measured
for their purity. They do the measuring.
They measure how old
the tree is, and, in this instance, how long
her mother’s been gone.
In another seven years the tree will shade
the formal marker with its name and dates,
recounting seven years of untold loss.