Sunday, November 16, 2014

Christ Church Burial Ground

There is an arbor grace
Upon this cemetery lawn
That lingers here
The guardian of a grove

It keeps in sacred centuries
And holds the graven hordes
Of soldiers, saints and sinners
Of an unexpected past

It isn’t summoned by a call
To some it doesn’t come at all
But I can tell it watches
Over many that I love

I watch them playing
In the leaves
And with a zephyr
Show their grief

Then come again
To claim the burl
Or branch or cavity
In turn

I think they know the trees
And look upon these friends
And kindred from their
Sturdy boles

While right beneath my feet
Their roots are curled around
The ageless humus
Of my very bones

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