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"The
Cemetery" by Linda Munson Peth
This good earth of our ancestors,
This
farm of our forefathers
Is
home to a bitter crop.
We
cannot stop every day to visit
Our
lost, our left ones.
Newly,
although not entirely bereft,
We
ride by, sighing,
For
they are all our family.
Ghost
Children are keeping a close watch
On
the beds of their brothers
And
others
Whom
they have not really known,
But
feel as if they do,
Telling
us that the missing have not truly disappeared,
Because, having gone to the graves and seen the evidence,
They
know the names, dates, places,
(These
sprites claim in their silliness),
Their
faces, yes,
Insisting
that the departed are
Dancing
in the dreams of God,
A
favorite theme imitated at home,
The
light and fantastic,
To
show us how it is done
Or
will be done
Evenings
when they roam the cemetery.
Skeptical
parents we are,
Remembering
the times
We
looked to no success,
Hoping
for any glimpse at night or in
Bright
sunshine
Of
fond faces, little visages needing kisses,
Baby
hands of bliss that have caressed our cheeks:
It all speaks of emptiness.
This
cemetery means, too,
A
haven for our parents.
Yours
have taken up residence.
Mine
are digging a foundation.
Together
we have plotted our places,
Sameways
as we sit in our study,
Supportive.
We
have the utmost respect for Death,
Its
invincible power
Not
neglected in our lives,
Molding
our minds in ways we cannot contemplate,
Cannot
escape.
We will have to walk to our long-lasting home.
Now,
returning,
We
rest in our bed of four posts.
I
will memorize the epitome of perfection,
Your
eyes, while you sleep.
In
Ghost House I will keep watching to see
That
you breathe,
That
the even rise and falls continue,
That
in the right light, at the right time,
Joining
hands with smiles,
We
will pack our baggage for exile.
(March 10, 1988)
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