In Woodstock, Vermont

cemeteryit is August and everything is green

and mowed and filtered with

sunlight. In a yard, a dog

barks and a trio of thrush

startle. Nearby,

an old man in white

rakes dead ground in wide

sweeps.

 

The headstones are old and gray

and point to the sky. Their letters are pocked;

eyes closed, I trace them with my fingertips.

I read of long lives.

 

Another thrush. A breeze. A rush

of wings. Miniature flags stuck

in the ground lift weakly then

fall. Flowers rest in

cellophane. Flowers stem

from the dirt.

 

Beyond the gate, a two lane road ends

in a narrow bridge. A girl

is pedaling a blue bicycle toward

a farmhouse with red

trim. A man is bending

over a table working

with his hands.

 

I wrote this poem almost 20 years ago. On late summer days, it still sends me to a peaceful place. Previously published in PoetTalk magazine.

Photo credit.

2 thoughts on “In Woodstock, Vermont

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