The stepping stones you once worked to uncover
are nearly hidden now by grass.

I kneel and trim away the sod with my big knife,

trying not to scrape the slate.
Bare and washed, each slab brightens

in scarlet streaks and jade shadows that fade as it dries.
I hose rotted shadberries out of the bronze basin,

and fill it to the brim. A catbird the light grey your eyes
sometimes were in a certain light

catches my eye, skips into new water, and does his live act.
I’m not one for omens, but I recall a red-tailed hawk

saluting us in circles over the field at your father’s memorial service—
the marsh hawk sailing by your memorial service,

and the Luna mother, crazy for my shirt breast
in wild gusts of wind at my mother’s gravesite—

all my familiars, rising out of nowhere.

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