it is August and everything is green
and mowed and filtered with
sunlight. In a yard, a dog
barks and a trio of thrush
an old man in white
rakes dead ground in wide
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.