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| "Cemetery Art - Chess Pieces" |
Title for this photo
is my personal
interpretation.
jmh
Photo:
Kent Durk
360icon.
Postcard
from Rose Hill Cemetery
James Hart
“… your eyes are
cameras that filter out the real.”—Jim Barnes
Dear friend, I found your poem near me today
walking here among the dead I never knew,
listening to autumn wind speak damp murmurs
to trees and stones. I marvel at the muteness a stone
can hold: carved syllables containing names, numbers
of lives ended over a century ago, script
brown with pine
needles, and here a fallen feather rain
pressed to this O
like a wing to lift us onward from gravity of
day.
No one remains among the living to remember
them
or the axle creaks of wagon wheels that bore
them here,
the lines of mourners dressed in widow black
as real
to me as withered weeds in ditches along a road.
Memory makes me picture them in cinematic
gray,
cloud shreds embracing earth after passing
storm:
distant trees screen processions of ghosts,
women
weep ancient wind beyond the blur of years.
October 13, 2012
This poem is indebted to
"Postcard from Poison Spider Creek, Wyoming."
Jim Barnes. On a Wing of the Sun.
University of Illinois Press, 2001.
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