this breath
the preacher said
was like God
no eye has seen
it force
the wintered stalks
to bend and nod
they remain
blandly colored
these unplanted muted
but surely rooted
stalks
sounding together
as a crowd clapping
or lapping
of the sea
not standing guard
but still guarding
the edge
where ordinary
tips into grief
where shadows of dormant trees
square off the grass beds
where arthritic fingers
linger over
the place of the dead
how ominous it should feel
inside the four-square
on the bench
from the sisters of the shadows
there
But only sad
the skeletal remains
of a wind chime
adorning a headstone
don’t ring
only there is the sound
of those stalks
applauding our efforts
at soothing
the sting
