There is an arbor grace
Upon this cemetery lawn
That lingers here
The guardian of a grove
It keeps in sacred centuries
And holds the graven hordes
Of soldiers, saints and
sinners
Of an unexpected past
It isn’t summoned by a call
To some it doesn’t come at
all
But I can tell it watches
Over many that I love
I watch them playing
In the leaves
And with a zephyr
Show their grief
Then come again
To claim the burl
Or branch or cavity
In turn
I think they know the trees
And look upon these friends
And kindred from their
Sturdy boles
While right beneath my feet
Their roots are curled around
The ageless humus
Of my very bones
