In the Union Cemetery

just above the three short blocks 
of my little town, the oldest graves, 
dating from the early 1800s, are dark 
and covered with lichen. A few obelisks, 
here and there, but mostly lower stones, 
and one tall statue of a doughboy 
from the Great War, the War to End All Wars, 
rising above the field of granite. I am drawn 
to the heartbreak of the small lambs 
from a time when childhood was riskier. 
And the fat cherubs, even though they look 
like they’d be more at home in a Renaissance palace. 
When I go past our mechanic’s stone, the one 
with the etching of his favorite muscle car, 
I can’t help but smile. And there, at the top 
of the hill lined with arborvitaes, is our stone, 
just letters and numbers carved in rose granite. 
My name’s there, too, and soon I’ll join you, 
pull up the green coverlet, and hope 
the leaves will cover us with their yellow rain.