Fog coils around crooked headstones
that slump like mourners bent in prayer.
A wail rises with the bitter wind—
kehilah in absentia, prayers unanswered.
Crows gather,
their oil-slick feathers glinting,
their curved beaks prodding the soft earth.
They know the soil here is rich.
Footsteps squelch through the mud and mire.
A hunched crone in black approaches,
mouthing Yisgadal v'yiskadash sh'mei raba...
Her lips move but make no sound.
At each grave she presses a stone to thin lips,
lays it atop the marker. Small solace for the dead.
Her muddy hem sweeps plots where her kin
fertilize foreign lands.
She kneels on sodden ground and
communes with ghosts dispersed.
The final amen sticks in her throat like a bone.
She rises, wipes a tear, adjusts her veil, plods on.
As she wanders, the birds caw and take flight, disappearing
into fog. A distant horn's plaintive call fades, unanswered