g r a t i t u d e

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Manicured lawn
and mid-day cicada whine
meet wilted roses
on a tended headstone.
I stretch on top of you,
poet, grandmother,
and see summer
through closed lids,
hear creek bed murmurs
that are part of your
daily conversations.
The grass under me
is nourished by your
body and I pick
a stem to chew,
remembering your
wisdom, gleaned
from one slim
volume left behind,
leather and ink,
thankful for
fading words:
Gratitude must be
to be real.

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