Marking Stone

The church grounds speak of care sustained

Through blue November raining gold

On grass below and roof above,

Settling silence indiscriminately

On cemetery stones weathered smooth,
 

Drawn in shallow carvings that one more winter,

Even the warm South, would wear away

The trace of centuries since the day
That raised the marking place.

Why do we speak the words again,

Kneel on cushions worn by kneeling

In remembrance like pencil lines rubbed thin

But still discerned, painted wood in how many layers

Of white on wood? 

Glass of churches should be clear

As these on such a day in blue November.

If only the roof were open

I could wait for the golden blanket to settle— 

I could be a marking stone,

Kneeling on cushions worn by kneeling,

Saying the words again,

Remembrance rising in prayers like incense 

Through falling leaves,

That we shall always remember, like smoke

Walking these grounds:
Trees ablaze over gray stones,

The organ and the song,

Clear glass and the cloudless sky. 

                                                                                                11/11/2012



Christ Church, 1843
Florence, South Carolina