Graves dug with a ditch witch
in hard desert dirt, concrete slabs
poured soon after burial to keep
the ground from sinking under
the drenching rains. Teddy bears
tied to stone crosses
lie soaked after the monsoons.
Heart-shaped rock sunk in the ground,
Whitewashed, with a name brushed
in thin black streaks,
splashed with mud now. Unreadable.
Try as they can, the living
will not stay wind, rain, sun, and dust
from smoothing granite and
whittling weather-treated wooden
pylons to sticks.

The living visit all day
to clean the grave
of a friend, mate or child.
They gather withered and brittle flowers,
rake up blown-in trash and beer bottles
thrown from the highway, and burn
it at the back in rusted metal drums.
Sometimes they adopt a grave
and show the same tenderness.

Each grave like a lawn or yard
shrine, with grilled fencing,
tulip garden, bamboo grove,
or inlaid brick in the form of a cross
and a seat under elms
to pray, relax, or tell stories in. I come to view their care. The
love for the dead even after 80 years.
I feel the break with life is not so great
then, and the memories
and invisible presence
fill me with awe
as I speak with my own past.