A subtle stone under the hand,

giving way to a wayward fall.

And through a cloud unable to reach,

a pinnacle not breached..

A crevasse no longer holding the hook,

as it grapples with the grapnel.

And picking the pebbles from under her nook,

the mountain manicures it’s granules

The hook no longer with the rope,

but dangling in the clouds.

And letting go of a wayward hope,

a subtle fall onto the ground.

by Thane Schwartz

An old man stands in the cemetery with his handful of forget me-nots.

An only son, he is here in this field with all his brothers.

He keeps company with his old friend who is always much younger than him.

He feels tired, weary, but stands up straight and smiles for his pal.

There is a busy street of stores to the north.

A few kids play on the basketball court in the twilight to the east.

Mothers push baby carriages just south of the hundreds of white stones.

And west is where the red sun slowly drops as everyone knew it would.

The old man hears nothing as if a large glass dome has descended on this place.

Soon he is aware of the sound of his own heart as it beats out its eternal rhythm.

He knows this is the only conversation they can have.

It is a good one, rich with the subtleties of their long relationship.

As he bends down to place his flowers next to his friend’s stone,

A bird sings them both a sweet little song, and looks down from her branch.

It takes him a minute to lift himself back up, and in that slowed-down time,

His friend, in just a few heart beats, says good-bye and be well.

Some folks are looking for bargains at the bed stores on this Memorial Day.

Others are celebrating on this first day of a long-earned summer.

One old man is standing alone among his brothers, not forgetting.

To the east, a kid on the court has stopped playing and watches the still man.

By Scott Harrison