With full stomachs and open minds,
We march up the hill just before sunset.
Train tracks, the Little League field,
The few lights' auras against the street dyed tangerine.
Larger than life itself,
We are a mountain.
Whispers of names and dates cross,
Read from chipped old stone.
Beloved daughter, sister, mother.
Taken too soon, angel headed Home.
In the furrows of our brows,
Now we are only a hill.
His drained gaze catches mine,
Azure eyes radiant in the sun-sunk night.
We breathe in damp air,
Breathe out worries of stumbling through tomorrow,
On nothing but wispy excuses.
We are only a molehill.
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