Thursday, July 19, 2012

across from the hospital

The old Catholic cemetery, many deceased.
Small and large pale markers, some leaning,
all glowing faintly as the sun begins to set.

The well-kept grounds are silent,
and a strangeness delves here.

Large oaks and elms are holding summer communion.

William J. Witt
Dec.   3, 1831
May 21, 1910

All the events of the world
while you were not dead!
How unusual that time, then.

All manner of living,
hard or easy breathing,
takes our bodies and souls
across the planes of waking.
To lose those days of being --
to die away from laughing,
grimacing, touching, dancing --
it is such a hurtful riddle.
But to lose the daydreams
stretching toward dim vista...
that is an unholy, direst thing.
Thin layers of hope and fog
wrap and hold some spirits,
cushioning them as they go
to worlds beyond the real
and deeper than ocean
on this side of death.

Did you, William J., ever cast a thought
over the pines prickling a ridge's spine,
to bounce beyond a locomotive's tasking
or the village's worn and weary talking...
a thought beyond possible going to
but rich with shimmering tomorrow?

Which is worse...
the Dreaming fog to die away
when you become cold dead
or Dreaming time to lose its art,
to beggar you before you go?

Copyright 2012, Tim Buck

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