(All writing published here is owned by me unless cited otherwise.)
In a lame summertime that never shrank and never grew,
I remember stepping into an old graveyard
Where my great-great-greats were laid;
Stillborn baby Sarah
And sister, daughter, wife, and friend Ruth Gardner.
Their names roughly carved and mossed over, hard to read.
Outside the old church in this boarded up town,
Empty and open and made of dust.