I WILL BE A PEBBLE
by Roberta Feins
a pebble falling down a deep well –
silence,
silence
till a small choked sound
rises sounds from the gloom, like grief
A drop of water switches places with the stone.
Seizing the moment, a tear
has thrown itself high into dim air
into the cool moist air
below the surface, below
tree roots cradling my father and mother.
See the gray metal pail
one of the gardeners has brought
filled with tulips
to plant around the sycamore
at the end of the row of markers.
When they are all planted, tucked
into a soil growing chill with winter,
when the gardener is walking back to the shed
winding through th H[