Archive
03/29/09 - (3)
Sunday Afternoon Visit, After the Snow
Who could have ventured a guess, Less than sixteen hours ago, For the snow that fell, In an ephemeral spell of helter-skelter, That I'd be sitting outdoors, in this cemetery, Not even wearing my coat. Yet, at this somnolent four o'clock, No traces of those anomalous flakes remain, Just sun, cerulean skies, me and my resting father.
Perhaps once a month, on a Sunday afternoon, I come to reestablish continuity, Remind myself that he and I are not alone, Amidst our patriarchs, buried here and nearby, And take, from the respectful visitation I make, A sense of awe that will guide me, In the paths of humility, Keep me from forgetting that I'm a dead man, too, Whose time has just not yet come to pass.
03/29/09 - (3)
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