Under the Rocks
by Greg Dyer

I

Removing first the boards and then the stones

above the well, we dropped the rusted cans

and broken bottles captured out of ash,

and waited for the splash that would not come.

II

We turned to stacking--laid our dog to rest

beneath a humble mound of limestone, left

the blackened cinders under the fire ring

after our campout with Dad--our first and last.

III

We buried Grandpa--who took us fishing, turned

the rocks and sifted through the soil, endured

the shining grubs, some stretching toward the sun,

some playing dead, afraid to be unearthed.