MEMORIAL DAY: DIGGING THE GARDEN Just less than spade deep I scrape a slab of limestone with shapely, squared-off corners, level side upmost in the dark clay. It nests in the dirt, weighty, permeable, settled. I heave it up, it skins the prints from my fingers, I am in a cool sweat of work now. I lift the stone to my cheek and press against its gritty plane. A treasure from someone else's life.