The Young People in this Graveyard
by Ted Guhl

are taking notes on the sun, grass, stones
and each other. They will write poetry
that speaks of nature and innocence, or
the betrayal of life. I photograph their
faces and postures.

A little to the east, in a newer section,
lies my father’s tombstone; its words are simple
and traditional; just as my mind’s picture
shows him bent a little with age
and care.

He was once as full of life and as curious
as these writers. He must have been.
Overhead the few clouds seem too white
against a too blue sky. Are all graveyards
visually so sharp?

I take photographs, without knowing exactly why.
Might they preserve something for
the children of these children? Keep memory from
betraying youth? So worn are the oldest
stones.

Beyond the granite entrance gate, the world,
(sometimes a graveyard of nameless markers
and unburied ghosts) await us.
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