At the Graveyard
       

Now they don't need a thing from us,
However small: not even a cup of water
Scooped from the fountain; not even a slight
Adjustment of leg or shoulder
To ease a cramp, or an offer to read them
A poem or two they used to like.

And now they have nothing to offer us,
Poor wanderers without luggage,
Without maps or pockets.
No blessings, no answers to any questions
We can think of asking, no words of advice
Besides the words that we choose to lend them.

Nothing to give us now or receive, and yet
Here we are with our bright bouquets
As if to say we still remember the light
Lost when they left us, and the light
They bestowed on us that we can't repay.

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Copyright © 2018 Carl Dennis All rights reserved
from Night School
Penguin Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission