At first sight, many
must have missed you.
Past the old wooden table,
and the wall of yellow tendril flowers
you thrum in all your glory;
apple trees
green and redden
laden with sweet firm fruit;
a broad lawn
trimmed with saffron,
pink and purple blossoms
fecund with pollen
worked by bees;
strawberries,
their frames sheltered
by green leaves;
and the final glade,
a sigh
of tall and unknown trees,
behind a wedge of hedgerow,
astride a shaft of green
soft earth.

Ten resting graves
in rows of one.
A hand-made swing.
Such harmony speaks
to me
of you
and the blindness
we are losing.

07/25/2005

Posted on 07/25/2005
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