I visited a forgotten cemetery, high on a dusty hill,
The bristly weeds grew rampant, and the air was strangely still.
I climbed the scarce-trod path in search of stories bold
Of pioneers and miners, and the families of old.
Bertha Rohrig, daughter, mother, sister, and wife,
1828 to '49, her full span of life,
A reminder of her story on a leaning, broken stone,
With two baby girls, they won't rest alone.
John W. Fulcher lived to forty-eight,
Crushed by his own wagon, to the mines he'd hauled freight.
The Culver brothers' father died at forty-four,
Committed for “soft brain,” unaware they'd died before.
Here lies Sheriff Turner who died of gallstones,
Typhoid took Little Kate before she was grown.
The sad stories linger of those who built the town,
Of Civil war bravery of soldiers of renown,
Widows who'd remarried or died of childbirth,
Their legacies and bones populate this earth.
This hallowed ground holds those respected and notorious,
Robbers, shepherds, farmers, and judges meritorious.
Citizens of this city of the dead are now all equal,
What they've built here for us is their dauntless story's sequel.
Just like the living, they loved, hoped and dreamed,
The passage of time renders their history esteemed.
When I dare to trespass on their final resting place,
I ask for permission their footsteps to retrace.
And their message to me is to duly take heed . . .
My story, too, shall pass like windblown tumbleweed.
Katherine Adler
Durango
