The land there rolls no more than the quiet river
Curves. Drifts of pine straw resin the ground.
Summer is remembered like a wild fever
That left the forehead when the sun went down.
That February day was mild as Easter.
There to the west of my abandoned town,
Shirt-sleeved gravediggers smoked at a corner
Of lawn unbroken by an upright stone.
Soft wind in the pines, the sound of water
Stilled in memory, the merciful brief drone
Of the old liturgy, and it was over.
My mother’s body by my father’s bones.
Winter. Easter weather. Long gone life-givers.
The land there rolls no more than the quiet river.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 5 Number 10, on page 37
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