After the Gates Close

At midnight,

the graveyard belongs to the moon.

The gate has stopped complaining

on its rusted hinges.

The last car has disappeared,

the last footsteps have faded,

and the living have gone home.

Now the stones stand

in their patient rows,

names silvered by moonlight,

dates softened by weather,

whole lives reduced

to a few lines

and a dash between them.

Grass moves between the graves.

Not wind.

Something quieter.

An owl calls from the oldest tree

and receives no answer.

Beyond the cemetery wall,

a dog begins to bark,

then suddenly stops.

The darkness seems deeper

around one particular grave.

There is no reason for it.

There is only the feeling

that someone is standing there,

waiting,

not to frighten you,

but to remember

what the world has forgotten.

The moon crosses the sky.

Shadows change places.

A fallen leaf skitters across a stone

and comes to rest beneath a name.

For a moment,

you think you hear whispering.

You lean closer.

Nothing.

Only the grass.

Only the branches.

Only the ancient silence

keeping company

with the dead.

And when you finally turn

toward the gate,

you discover

that one of the cemetery doors

has already opened.

You don't remember opening it.