The view from the road goes by in a flash
even as the view of the town inches by.
The miles blur like a photo mishmash.
The years tick-tock as they multiply.
Above the shabby farm town, forgotten
and lonely, a graveyard sits on a hill.
Old chipped headstones lean together, hidden
by overgrown trees and the daffodils.
Like a flip book, this scene happens over
and over, time after time and again.
I’m surprised by how many there are—
the countryside littered with ancient townsmen.
Who cares for these graves, these buried fellows?
Not us rushing past them like empty echoes.
forgotten under a tree
Daryl Muranaka lives with his family in New England. In his spare time, he enjoys aikido and taijiquan, and exploring his children’s dual heritages. He has written one book of poems, Hanami, and two chapbooks, The Minstrel of Belmont and Leading the Beast Home.