The Hillside, or The Pallbearer

It doesn’t matter how carefully I walk on wet grass—
The water always finds a way to seep into my shoes.
Strange thought to have when carrying what I am.
Four of us lead the way to the hillside.
The dead here are buried high up
To make their ascent just a little easier.
Beneath us, spreading out to the horizon
The ocean rolls inward.
Salt spray on the air tells the living on the hill that,
Although a piece of beauty
Has departed for unknown shores
It is not yet the end. There is more in this world.
Cobalt waves remind us of all that was,
And though we part with a friend
It is but a moment to the reunion.


Original Photograph
 

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