I arrange seven stones in a circle,
each rising just above the surface
of a secluded mountain stream.

I find one more that just fits
in the palm of my hand, trace
your name upon the slate grey,

and then place it in the middle,
like a monument to the memory
of what was but can no longer be.

Wash away the grief, wash away
the sorrow, and may the gentle
flow sing a song to the summer sky.