I suppose that there should be a blessing for stones, those broken piles of marble, granite and slate one finds in old cemeteries.
“Bless you stones, your broken piles, your tenacity to mark bones. Bless you, catastrophe of stones.”
Bless whomever you guard, even if the only decipherable words say, “He, guy…”
Bless the nameless babes in a wall of “INFANTS”. Fraziers these, an old name in Milton Freewater.
High on hill this pioneer cemetery gathers the dust from the fields about and sprouts blooms for the dead, stands of lupine, stripes of purple. While across the valley the newer cemetery is filled with vases of flowers and flags for veterans, this one is graced with only lupine and the stones and three trees. And grass so tall that the waving heads cast shadows mirrored on the upright stones.
Bless the stones and those whom they guard.