In Lieu of Flowers

I sat down to pull a thorn from my lace

and found myself sharing a stranger’s space.

'For Martha,' the plaque said, crooked and small,

'Who loved the way the sycamore shadows fall.'

A screw has gone missing in the upper left corner,

so the bronze plate rattles like a quiet mourner

every time the wind kicks up off the lake.

It’s a frantic little rhythm for a heart to take.

I looked up at the branches, the peeling white bark,

and wondered if Martha sat here until dark,

watching the same gold light hit the grass

before she let the rest of the world pass.