Cut Grass

The sun still bright,

the stones still gray.

The groundskeeper’s precise new right

to trim the green away.

Around each name, a fresh-cut line.

Small blades of grass, like scattered coins.

A faded rose, a plastic sign

of love that still enjoins

the living to the dead.

Its petals stiff, unyielding red.

A child's small hand,

a dark, cold land.