The graveyard came with the property,
The realtor had told my dad;
So each summer I take some time
To clear out the corner of the land
Where the Seavey family lies.
New Hampshire law requires this of me,
Or so my father thought,
But I believe I would do it anyway:
The Seaveys were tenants for the folk
Who farmed these acres beside the pond
Before forest reclaimed field
And realtors drew maps of shorefront lots.
Down the lane a proper granite wall
Protects the owners’ graves,
And people take snapshots
Of scrubbed headstones in ordered rows.
The Seaveys have not fared so well:
With ungloved hands
I uproot weed and bramble
And the beginnings of little trees.
Like my father before me
I do not have the proper tools
Or know the right names for things.
I leave in place the fragile ferns
And the ground cover
My mother called clintonia.
The headstones tilt at different angles
Like dancers in a tableau turned askew--
Our girls took rubbings of them
Years ago, for their grandparents’ pleasure:
One, in a far corner, almost hidden,
All but on the ground,
Marked only with initials:
Perhaps a child taken before his time
Or a hired man
Seeking the New Hampshire home
Of which Frost spoke.
Requiescatis, Seaveys,
And rest well too,
Parents and grandparents,
Whose headstones are far from here
But whose presence fills these woods
And the furniture we have not moved.