Beneath the boughs
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of ancient trees
A little flag defies the breeze
And every carving’s stark relief
Reminds us of a day of grief.
The flowers in the vase
And over time, the markers tilt;
The letters on a stone may blur
But even after decades stir
The memories of those
Of how they’d smile
and laugh and roar.
And standing on this gusty hill
I think that they are with us, still.