The only mourners left;

These summer storms

Those winter moons.

 

Winds that sand

Away the names

On tombstones

 

To flatness as if

No one ever lived

Here to farm the fields.

 

But someday,

When even the dead

Are not looking,

 

The centurion pines

Standing guard

Nearby will split,

 

Splinter, collapse,

From lightening

Or ice-laden limbs,

 

Like everything else

In these forgotten plains,

Years before their time.