GRAVEYARD

The shuttered church sits just off the road,
a narrow track through the remotest
part of this valley.

Forty or so simple stones testify to
a century and a half of more
or less loyal Lutherans with

names from Germany. Some one
still cares. The grass is clipped
to three inch height, the metal

hinges of the gate well-oiled.
At the far end, just outside
the fence, stands a solitary stone,

shaded by the April blossoms
of a Japanese cherry tree. It
bears a name unlike the rest,

contains two dates that span
four decades. There is one word
more: "Mother." So was there

sin or something saintly that
deserved this separation, this
exclusivity? I do not, can not

know, can only wonder who and
what and why, can only hope she
knew her child or children

loved her.