Where ants may pick upon them from below
And eventually the rain will unmask
The wilted pieces of the load away from stones
Bury stones of burden without memorials
Except the scrape where dirt was pulled away
Eventually the weeds will get territorial
And leave no other marker on the grave
These burdens, now, the stones of them
Will sink through soil in time to join with lime
The weight and press of all the stones, the hem
of crust at edges of the rock, the lines of time
Will merge with all the burdens buried by us all
And we will wake from up the grass, renewed, full.
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