This is my handkerchief

gray at the edges.

A prayer for the dead I have folded

or a dove asleep in my hands.

Dad gave one to each of us

at his father’s funeral.

We never seem to remember

such things, though

we have both buried too many

and many too young.

Cotton milled to capture tears

should be blue

with a bold design

to draw my grief down

and away over grass

cut short, stones laid flat.

Waiting for the mower

and the wind.

–Kyle Kimberlin

Signal Fires, 2000