Ken Morris

Hidden Roses

When I couldn't face the lawn
Or my lazy brother,
I'd hop the back fence,
Follow the winding creek
A quarter mile.

There,
On a hill,
Was a natural plateau,
Surrounded by a valley and trees
On all four sides:
An old family cemetery.

Twenty tilted, faded tombstones
Stood in rows.
The grass tended itself;
Trees split the sunlight
Into visible rays.

I stood
Among the stones and wildflowers
Reading the names--
Daniel Johnson
1891-1893,
In lettering like week-old bars of soap.
I wondered,
"How'd they die?"

A soft wind
Rustled the surrounding leaves.
Lilacs and wild roses
Hugged the stones,
Releasing a fragrance
Like my Grandmother's old perfume.

Once,
I found a bouquet
Of withered
Wild roses and dandelions,
Threw them over the edge;
Saw them separate and
Circle downward in the wind,

Into the rippling stream.