GRAVESITE

GRAVE SITE

approached the village
grave yard resting
near old train tracks
over looking
mountains of Vermont

in fall, marble wraps
an envelope by color -
summer – a robin’s nest
in the old maple -

one robin, beating its'
breast on a giant limb -
must - be Mama

watching her child
fly near her gravesite, near
buckets where syrup cries

no roadway in winter -
on top of the crest of
pure white snow - a

grave yard - cement
markers peek out of
white over coats -

Mama’s voice - is
silently yelling -

"Up here, on the hill....
it's cold, and I'm alone."

Nancy Duci Denofio
And yes, I can hear my mother calling - especially when the winter hits the New England States.