Flurries slice the air sideways,
salt the grass.
Rustlings of pale cornstalks
point us down the highway,
the trip faster than on the old road
through apple towns.
The snow thickens,
pushes us up the Portland hill,
past the fairgrounds.
You’ve come home to your husband,
his gravestone
next to the opened ground,
slightly tilted
as if to make room for you.
We mark your coffin with the still soft earth,
too numb to be surprised
by an early November snow.
