It’s well past noon on Cemetery
Hill.
By dint of sweat, I think I’ve earned
my bread;
but there the older brother labors
still,
where some rash root invades the
vacant bed
of brothers yet to rest. He digs
about
the living limbs to make room for
the dead,
and while he strains at one, I give
a shout
to ask the old man when we’ll take
a break.
He doesn’t hear. I watch him pry
the stout
stump of a cedar up. I guess he’ll
make
by reason of his strength fourscore
at least,
before he’ll pause to stretch his
thin arms out,
and lay aside the axe, the spade,
the rake,
to nap awhile, toes pointed toward
the East.
© 2013 Joseph Matthias |