Beneath the branches 

If you stand at the beginning
this is what you’ll see,
tall trees, thick trunks,
branches raised, bent
a dangle of wooden arms. 

A canopy of shade,
from the blazing sun. 
A hide and seek tapestry,
for the playful moon.

Walk,
stroll down this fateful path. 
Breathe the air,
the southern air, 
that calls this place home.

Stand at the beginning,
where people once strolled,
their walk, their last,
beneath those branches arms.

The trees still stand,
a canopy of shade,
from the blazing sun. 
A hide and seek tapestry,
for that playful moon.

Listen for the breath,
breath,
breath,
their last. 
Name, names,
so many names,
we will never know.

The photographs provide a proof,
where you can almost see,
the breeze blow through
flowered dresses,
worn slacks,
boots,
bare feet.

Look close enough at the photo
you will catch a glimpse,
the tilt of a head,
away from the rope,
turned taunt from dangling.

A canopy of branches, shade
from the sun, the moon. 
Who watch,
take in,
remember,
wonder,
too.

There were people
whose names we’ll never know. 

-BJT