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Relics
by Kristina Woodhill
Leading the way
To our next probable funeral,
I point to the line of dirt mounds
Marching along our small ditch
Shovel tip dives and explores,
Shoving aside tilth and crumble
I covet in spring,
Seeking a gopher-sized opening
That refuses to exist
Small rock cairn,
You may think you hide
Our quarry,
But a tease
Must leave
A map behind
a trap in a hand
carries no tension
a trap in a hole
has but one plan
Near the winter corn patch
Low hanging ears in crinkly husks,
Left for pheasants,
Did not hear the dove's last coo
Assorted gray wing feathers,
Delicate down of breast strewn,
As soft as the feet
Approaching its feast
a mound is a mound
when on top of the ground,
a relic resides under glass
Sent by your widow,
Just before Christmas,
One small clear plastic bag
I fingered the remains
Of your remains, brother,
Already sprinkled in your
Favorite river in New Zealand,
Already spread on a family plot
In Oregon
Grit blended with fine,
All of one color,
Your rainbow without a prism,
Slow drizzle after sunset
A curious sensation
To hold you in my palm,
Knowing you will rest with Dad
This summer, again out of my sight
A relic in a cathedral too far,
Where wishful thinking creates saints
And pilgrims are brought to their knees
02/16/2015 Posted on 02/16/2015
Copyright © 2024 Kristina Woodhill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Ken Harnisch on 02/16/15 at 06:55 PM The last four stanzas of this poem are poignant, Kristina, and had me soberly reading them over and over to catch every nuance I might have overlooked the first time. The stanza beginning "A curious sensation..." very close to the feelingI have had when the cremains of someone close have touched my palms and fingertips. |
| Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 02/16/15 at 09:59 PM A wistful look at winter, an intimate look at grief, an encounter that stirs the emotions and ones own remembrance of dear ones gone before. |
| Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 02/19/15 at 03:40 PM this vehicle of yours Kristina sets me all aflame and I find myself with rip chord in hand, mulling whether tis better to mull and burn in this magnificent ode than pull and free myself up for the less splendiferous and soulless kind? |
| Posted by Laura Doom on 02/20/15 at 07:31 PM Grit blended with fine,
All of one color,
Your rainbow without a prism,
Slow drizzle after sunset
...memorable & sublime... |
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