The Memorial

The road devours the trees and the mountain, like fruit,
excretes the miracle of convenience. At the end of the trail

a memorial looks over the valley, where mountains
crash into a shoreline of silvery pastures shot through

with pink evening light, where factories ride the fog
like freighters on a becalmed estuary. Above, the marble

memorial gleams so white the war seems to have ended
just a year or two ago though the tarnished plaques

gives the dates of two world wars. Nearby
some teenagers are drinking and having a picnic.

I didn’t hike up the mountain to judge the happiness
of children watching the sunset on a wool blanket

laden with bread and beer. I came to breathe,
a necessity simpler and truer than faith, to feast

at the common table of trees and mountains.
I came to memorialize a tiny patch of earth elsewhere

whose pastures, ashes, birches, and persimmon trees
have no marble to sanctify or save,

no monument but the common one of breath.