Inter

As I let go of the thin handful of dirt
To drop with a dark and final silence
I mumble a short prayer, without conviction.

What departs with my grandfather
This damp November day in Providence
Is the last memory of his father's father

Long since committed to a Pennsylvania hillside
Stillborn son and wife abreast
Three cold stones I touched once as a child.

Next to me, my sister turns up the collar
Of her gray wool coat. A pair of nearby finches,
Stir the wet leaves brown under a lone oak.

And I imagine my great-great grandchildren
Themselves senseless and scattered
Might have words to make a memory warm.