Where obelisks tipped like grass in the breeze,
each year at Easter I knelt at your grave,
hands folded, eyes closed, no fear of disease--
what ended your life could make me feel brave.
I never knew you, but I kind of did;
I'd rock on my knees or my head would nod:
that you somehow died and I somehow lived--
this was all that I ever knew of God.
Our Father, Hail Mary, said not so fast
as to slur my words even in my mind,
I remember nothing I said or asked--
enough to be near one I dreamed so kind,
nearer to heaven, though everyone dies
under the blessèd white-blue of such skies.