Graves
I was not raised Linda Hindman To fear the stones The arching rows Bleached white as bones on the beach. My mother would search them For our ancestors While I picked wildflowers. She subtracted dates And adding lamb-guarded infants, I first felt simple mortality With wonder, not fear. So comfortable was I with stones That Gettysburg’s wide pastures Should not have made me cry The battle scars long healed Under a hundred years of grass Not so green-- Even much blood’s nitrogen fades. Gone to their own graves are All the grieved generations That mourned the men whose names Are carved on every side. Still, I heard spilled blood Crying from earth And grieving voices. At least they knew Unsaid words could be delivered. Husbands and sons marched Certain of death and glad to die For their causes. But in that new place, The instant grave of thousands I am sure the voices scream From that open scar For these unwitting warriors Kissed their loved ones Or hurried out One clear September morning. |