bandages on a wound
each child flits back and forth
amongst the chiseled markers
and sandy mounds of orange dirt,
each in search of small stones
with which to top each marker
where lie family who have passed on,
a concrete way to remember, and honor,
a way to ride the great currents of feeling
that we adults ride with words and melody and tears,
and, to be honest, avoidance,
the grave before us will also call each of us,
probably sooner than we’d wish,
the finality of the coffin below
and the spadefuls of dirt we help to return deep into the earth
work on us, while our words cover our hurt,
like bandages on a wound we don’t want to see.
by Henry H. Walker
September 11, ’14
No comments:
Post a Comment