The photograph your mother took 

hung in the local diner for 

thirty years before the weight of 

dust yanked downward towards the core of

the earth.  It was a tectonic 

shift ending all the permanence 

she contained. Her grave was small and 

barren but that photo she took 

of the great stone tower amongst 

the forest rose in the deep thoughts 

of every patron who drank burnt 

coffee, and ate the buttered bread,

and broke the egg yoke in the pink 

mornings. There, your mother would laugh

and you’d hope she’d live forever.