In the Town Hall's Graveyard

In the hayed field thick with dusted mist,
As the noon whistle of the village hissed,
We noted how the dead were neatly placed,
How all lay labeled, how all were given space.

We remarked the craft of marble wreath,
And supposed that those who lay beneath

Were, like us, clad in the fashion of their day,
Some fitting shroud in which to greet an eternity of clay.

Nearby we saw the fruits of Arbor Day and said
How lovely were the trees; how well pruned and fed.
The trees ignored our gaze, as was their right,
And spawned a host of shadows, imitating night.

The hill beyond, round and mirrored as a globe,
Climbed once in spring, above us hovered
On high and wind smoothed walls of slate
On which trees' naked branches scraped

An etching of themselves slashed onto sky.
But we wandered late into our day and birds' cries
Made us spy the gray and shaken sheets of storm,
That sheathed us soon and drove us down

Into the brambles where the ancient Indians lay,
Separated by the weeds' time from the weather of the day,
And resolved at last to, sightless, calmly wait
Upon the last night's opening of the gateless gate.

"The slashing brambles took our eyes away.
The rain in sheaves removed our clay.
Our dried skin, in husks, remains asleep.
To awaken us, you must dig deep

"Beneath the earth of whittled leaves
Beneath the grief that no longer grieves;
To awaken us you need a careful touch,
For dig you must, but never dig too much."

We turned from the field and its rustle of birds,
Where once sunlight played on summer words,
Playing now only to the chiseled stones,
And to the silence of the abandoned bones.

That stillness slashed the grass with scythes of wind,
And made us wish we could a thousand acts rescind,
But we knew our wishes were for naught,
For what is easily sold is dearly bought.

Instead, we startled life in a whirr of wings,
And in that moment came to present things.
We went home, made tea, and sat together,
Held hands at evening and talked about the weather.