Читать книгу Woodsmoke - Wayne Caldwell - Страница 13

It’s mighty quiet on the side of the hill.

A pretty place, too, to lay down facing east

Against that trumpet blast they talk about

In the Revelations. I get up here ever now and again,

To tidy up, tend to plants, say howdy to Birdie.

Sometimes, like today, I just set a spell and think.

People don’t hardly have family burying grounds anymore.

It’s a shame, for there you see where you come from —

As well as where you’re bound. Dust to dust, the Book says.

Birdie’s people started planting here when her great-grandpa died.

That’s him yonder with the gates of heaven opening up

Atop his marble column. What I hear, he likely busted other gates

Wide open, but that’s not mine to judge. There’s all kind of tomb rocks,

From store-bought stones with “Gone but not Forgotten,”

To square rectangles with hand-chiseled names and dates

But no room (or maybe patience) for words of remembrance,

To moss- and lichen-covered fieldstones

Under which lie stillbirths and babies lived a day or two.

Birdie and me had one of them, she called her Sarah,

But the young’un never even cried.

She’s buried way over yonder where it’s as quiet as she was

So she can listen to the birds in peace,

And she’s got the best view of Pisgah a gal could want.

I planted that butterfly bush next to Birdie ’cause she loved ’em,

And I put in that lilac close to Sarah. Birdie, bless her,

Planted March flowers on our girl’s grave

So early spring I come up here for yellow comfort.

I thin and replant ever few years — Birdie’s circled by

The children of Sarah’s first flowers. She’d like that.

One of these days they’ll lay me down beside her

Forever to sleep. By then, I’m sure, I’ll need the rest.