by Michael Montlack

the mountain slants like a staircase to the stars,
where the stars seem to sing the horses to sleep.
Here, where a cemetery has more inhabitants
than its town, making the living a minority.
The quiet here, like a current seldomly broken,
a wordless prayer for the indifferent landscape,
where every dirt path hints at an untold secret
and a tree can be traced to relatives who planted it,
their way, perhaps, of adding a verse to the prayer
before they’re invited to join the majority.