for my grandfather
He was in a poem once, alive
at the beginning, dead by the middle,
haunting me at the end.
The field that holds his body
turns by measures green,
yellow, white, and green again.
The beech grove surrounding
the field that holds his body changes too,
with the grasses, like the grasses.
But the stone scarred with his name
tells exactly the same story
over and over every day,
the way ghosts are said to repeat
the darkest moments
of their lives throughout eternity.