They like to come here. Pleasant
smoothly among the stones;
a parking place at every grave;
a quiet suburb where the distant mower drones.
Instead of one they'd snarled at, he or she,
or nagged with angry tears,
the dirty, worn perplexity
they had endured at last in silence through the
there is a polished stone and the mown grass
over the buried dark;
there is the shadow that will pass;
there are the muffled cars that glide and softly
Let there be no tears; let the easy plough
creature from creature sever.
Death is no inconvenience now.
At last no need for talking, talk all stopped
Wasn't this peace, this clippered prettiness,
this silent presence here,
this still and sterilized caress,
what they had longed for always, always held
The Naked Scarecrow, New Odyssey Press, ©
Originally printed in The Southern Review.
permission of the author.