There will be no monument for you.
No quarried pink granite statue,
no sleek wall with carved names,
or plaque at which we leave flowers.
What irony, to leave flowers at your grave,
to finger spell the name M A P L E on cold stone,
where hands used to touch warm bark,
feel sweet time seep through veins.
Nothing will fly at half-mast,
not the flag that claims your land,
or the birds that claimed your branches
as sacred choir loft.
There will be no moment of silence,
no annual tolling of bells
or communal lament for lives lost,
its long list of names retold:
As we walk across your grave
for daily purchase and progress,
heads bowed against cement winds,
no one will weep or remember your songs.