Dusting Stone

The sun was a fist,

bright and hard,

on the small, grey stones

of the old cemetery yard.

I saw her then,

a quiet woman,

her yellow cloth a sudden flag

against the bleached granite,

wiping a name.

Like it was dust from a shelf,

or the kitchen counter,

this small, precise care

for something done, finished.

The heat just sitting on it all,

a heavy, silent thing.