the quiet dead

like grey sand
the snow
is there in smooth piles,
unvanquished
by sun
and a light breeze that
moves
thin branches
of ancient trees,
wet flags
nearly dried and hanging
at the gate
to the cemetery.
the dead are quiet today.
much of what was
known of them is unknown.
we walk the muddied
trail around.
reading the headstones,
saying the names
out loud.
there are no benches,
no places with which to stop
and rest.
we trudge forward,
around the curve,
past the limestone,
the marble,
the rocks, back to the iron
gate
that shows us a way
out, for now.