Having lived a wretched life, he died.
He was buried on a quiet slope with
a stream flowing in front, a hill behind.
One balmy spring day with a mild wind blowing
a white wooden marker was standing over his grave.
It stood looking as wretched as his life had been,
exposed to every wind.
Yet that marker suggests there was nothing
worth remembering in the past. Its fragile face
that was growing darker as time went by
looked sad.
It was quietly calling attention to something
that might be heard and might be seen.