Friday poem

I'm posting an original poem every Friday for a year.

Graveyard

This late sky is a dismal light for reading these stones,

and a century of rain has taken the inscription from my grandfather’s stone.

Much of his name is gone,

and most of his years,

only a one and an eight remaining.

Beyond that, the few who could tell me about him lie nearby.

I let them sleep, their

own limestone days unnumbered

grain by grain.

None of this for me.

When my time comes I’ll outrun the rain.

I’ll let the sun turn every cell to dust and

count on the wind to broadcast me to the world.

Grandfather, did you ever think I’d travel so far?