What can be more at peace

What can be more at peace than a cemetery in the evening?
The sun lingers behind the houses beyond the fence.
Dogwoods, lilacs, magnolias
Float like clouds, delicate, pale and white.
Daffodils, tulips, cut flowers, grace some stones.
Here and there, little AAA powered grave lights,
Red and blue or yellow,
Wink on in the slowly gathering gloom.

I pass the afternoon work of the backhoe,
7 by 3 by 6, precise and neat,
Covered by plywood, waiting for tomorrow,
For the kid who dropped at tennis practice
In a spring afternoon's sudden heat.

My dog thinks only of squirrels
And the after dinner rabbit,
She yanks my arm in her desire to give chase,
And I think how my mind's come to be like this place.

In my graveyard of remembrance,
Childhood friends, old girlfriends,
Many a work acquaintance,
Slumber under time's grass,
Their markers left strange and cryptic
By years of acid rain and neglect.

There's the obelisk, my parent's tomb.

There's the little plot,
Circled by a rusted iron fence,
Where my family lies, wife, kids,
Separated by anger, time and distance.

There before me lies an open grave,
Waiting just a few last words,
Tired, rather than angry or sad,
Then the dirt'll be tossed
And you'll be gone, like the rest.

Now the sun's set, natural light has fled,
The cemetery lies in slumbering peace,
In my head, I await the waking dead.