What I Know

We scattered the ashes of my grandparents
on the other side of this bark twisted apple tree
(opposite you),  and the white tarpaulin flapping

in the oak grove looks just like a person.
Across the valley, low mountains acquiesce
to the first bit of snow.  In the mottled shade

a leaf vibrates like a helicopter blade
over the creak, creak of tight branches.
Black silhouettes of the pine giants

(the ones that survived)

stand arm to arm against the approaching
ridgeline.  A bird chip, chip chips from left ear
to right to the beat of a second hand.

Your headstone, handmade
by an artist outlaw, is encircled
by carefully placed trinkets,

each one catching the sunlight just so,
as if always there is someone
paying attention.