It is written in four line stanzas, though I can’t convince the blog it matters.

Resting Place

I often stop 

at this tiny cemetery, 

just off the state route

that trails down from Hairy John.

Pastels might do the landscape justice—

or a fine camera

in the hands of someone

with a painterly eye.

The deep dark soil

has attracted the Amish—

their farms dot the valley,

and I am often slowed

by horse and carriage

as I coast along

the gentle curves.

But this graveyard

is older than the Amish farms

and it seems unlikely

that the faded names

would spark

a recognition

in the eyes

of the living.

Wikipedia

calls those with a passion

for visiting graveyards

“Tombstone Tourists,”

although I don’t suppose

I qualify— as this spot

of peace and respite

is on my way 

from college to college.

The bones 

buried here

are past memory.

Isn’t that the way of these

monumental places?

Graveyards have always

been for the living.

I finish my coffee.

and grab a piece of the view—

undulating glen

in sun and shade

to see me home.