You wouldn’t sleep in the din of cousins
laughing at weather as clear as memory
alongside the bones of ancestors resting
in stone houses under brush and broom
or perhaps roaming, answering the call
their bounds in life made dim and pale
but now freed find majestic and severe.
Not until we left that place, the laughing
weather faded behind the stone houses
of the living, did you sleep comfortingly,
perhaps soothed under the gentle touch
of ancestors anxious for your next return.