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



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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