at the gate

you linger
at the gate, the line
of black cars
snaking
in between the stones
etched
with beginnings
and endings.
the sun tilts
against the trees,
dapples the manicured
lawns,
brushes gold
against cut flowers
dropped or thrown.
who are we praying for,
who has
ears
to listen, or the time,
to understand
what any of this
means.
you go in. that's
what we do
in times of grief.