tears hover
over sod lying dry
limp and brittle
in long rigid fingers
forearms of sweat
moist eyes
too little to
bring this clump of
promise
back to life
sod cutter’s mark
shows how it is so easily
pulled away
from the ground on which it was
planted
and how a grandfather’s hand whose
hubris and old
naivete
made him think it would be there
forever
muddy cheek streaks
I will not wipe them
with stained hands
that only smear the
sorrow
from its graceful trail
down my face
like a sad irrigater with
broken main and a
futile attempt to
water a field
already sewn with salt
2 comments:
Clarence, this is gorgeous and very moving. I knew you wrote great prose; did not know you were a poet. Carla
I didn't know, either. What is a poet? Blame Julia.
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