Elegy in the Camposanto
Time fades your image, the anger,
accusations, long silence; and I’ve come
to ask if you are at rest. That small
fence we built between your rose granite
stone and the neighbor’s junk pile--
does the talisman-blue paint we used,
half cyan and half cerulean, keep you
safe from the voices now?
It’s snowing, and by twilight, this old
Spanish cemetery where we planted you
in gaudy October will turn to silver
print. In an hour, new snow will blanket
the teddy bears and Barbies left
for lost children and tin rakes and
spades set out for gardeners.
How lightly the snow falls. How slowly
it veils grave markers and winter
stubble, plastic sunflowers and peonies,
even the spurs and sombreros--
transforming all to white offerings.
First published in The Atlanta Review
accusations, long silence; and I’ve come
to ask if you are at rest. That small
fence we built between your rose granite
stone and the neighbor’s junk pile--
does the talisman-blue paint we used,
half cyan and half cerulean, keep you
safe from the voices now?
It’s snowing, and by twilight, this old
Spanish cemetery where we planted you
in gaudy October will turn to silver
print. In an hour, new snow will blanket
the teddy bears and Barbies left
for lost children and tin rakes and
spades set out for gardeners.
How lightly the snow falls. How slowly
it veils grave markers and winter
stubble, plastic sunflowers and peonies,
even the spurs and sombreros--
transforming all to white offerings.
First published in The Atlanta Review