Your grave lies small beside the grass,
which short–I hear the sound of mowers still
rises higher than the marbled flat within the ground.
This place we laid you:
never once to see the sun,
or the brown and dying blades
But now the grass is green again
and now the sun (at last) is warm.
I dream you’re resting, Ana, here
within a world that seems (in parts)
~ Your brother