As if this dirt still childlike
was something new in the world
not yet the powerful side to side

and you could walk slowly uphill
the way each breeze is cradled asleep
--you wrap these stones with a mask

that is not a grave --closer and closer
they follow behind one another
tugging you somewhere that weighs

nothing --you don't plant anymore
though your arms move softly
as you wait for the stones

and whatever they can still lift
--every Spring is filled with dirt
and one hand already hillside

--even now you open your arms
and the emptiness, by instinct, sways
with her footsteps facing the others.