The family graves looked bare without
a re-purposed tin can of peonies centered
before each stone. The old aunt
who observed the ritual is gone, and suddenly,
I miss her and my childhood certainty.
Behind sparse pines, the barnyard
clearing paints pale sky--no corn crib
cupola's silhouette, no familiar bulk
of barn. Half-guiltily, I recognize
the bewildered ache of a near one's
passing away.
I walk the field sold to the man
who tore down the barn. Technically,
I am now a trespasser. But I mean no harm,
am careful of the knee-high corn, brush
gently between young blades smooth
and whirled up top like calla lilies.
They rasp, rustle, whisper in a gentle wind.
I listen around the ringing in my ears
and hope this emptiness is the hallowing
of another sanctuary . . . that it is only
the pause between exhale and breath.
a re-purposed tin can of peonies centered
before each stone. The old aunt
who observed the ritual is gone, and suddenly,
I miss her and my childhood certainty.
Behind sparse pines, the barnyard
clearing paints pale sky--no corn crib
cupola's silhouette, no familiar bulk
of barn. Half-guiltily, I recognize
the bewildered ache of a near one's
passing away.
I walk the field sold to the man
who tore down the barn. Technically,
I am now a trespasser. But I mean no harm,
am careful of the knee-high corn, brush
gently between young blades smooth
and whirled up top like calla lilies.
They rasp, rustle, whisper in a gentle wind.
I listen around the ringing in my ears
and hope this emptiness is the hallowing
of another sanctuary . . . that it is only
the pause between exhale and breath.
You old trespasser, you! Thank you -- profoundly and sincerely -- for affording your reader the chance to trespass with you.
ReplyDeleteMarianne Moore once praised the poems of a relatively young poet by saying, "I read with reverence anything that he writes." Miss Moore's words come to mind as I ponder your poetry's consistent excellence. It is grace. It is benediction.
Those words -- "the hallowing/ of another sanctuary" -- gently demand that the reader should linger awhile, and perhaps even bow his head, conscious of the quiet consecration.
Thank you so much, Thomas!
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