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posted May 20, 2009, 11:38 AM by David Storlie   [ updated Aug 23, 2010, 11:15 AM ]
Some pile 
gray stones in fields
on top of the ridges
or even those bogs 
and marshes 
under the bridges.

These rectangled graves
with reeds and cat-tails 
swishing through
I saw from a Scottish Rail car
carried by in June.

Stones too small 
for houses or walls
to line along the bridges
fit just right 
in tight stubbled piles
on top of the ridges.

I'll go back when I'm gray 
and cracked
to gather stones and wander
through fields of hardy grass
to reap the health of summer.

But if one night 
I fall from a bridge
remember my bones;
bury me right
on top of the ridge
with a blanket of stones.