There were weeds and mosses and Vinca between the rows of stones.

Some had no shape, just carefully selected and placed stones to mark a grave.

Many had no words, just lichens and mud nests.

Some markers had been replaced with new ones that included names and dates.

Family graves deep in the mountains, miles from pavement.

We respectfully intruded.  I whispered greetings and apologies.

Those living had struggled to secure this sacred spot from ATVs and dirt bikes.

Metal poles pounded deep in the earth. Thick cable strung around it in a circle, protecting the family graves from careless strangers.

I stood in silence, looking around the circle, examining the markers. These people were loved.

“Tho lost to sight, to memory dear.”

I sent up prayers for peace for the dead and peace for the living.

A sacred spot for the dead encircled in steel cable for protection from the reckless living.

Hallowed ground.

Peace