In a little town close to home
I found the grave of twelve
None were old enough to bear a weight of woe
But none were young enough to shame
Six girls and boys were aligned with stones
With nothing less then bits of lore
-Some scraps of memos- hanging pipes
a six inch string of pictures yore.
I saw a beaded necklace-
it was hanging from the bow
And it swayed within the wind from North
Where dust picked up and made it drop.
The rocks sat chipping way with age
The grass around-
Were dried up flames
And tips of green peaked up beneath the stones.