Take a right turn at marker 53, cross
the tracks. Deep in woods of oak trees and crosses
there are memories planted. a garden of rotting
wood caught in weeds and green moss crosses.
Few feet have found this fading morass, this solemn
ground, a silenced chorus de l'esprit- of crosses.
They've been buried beneath branches, left beneath
leaves for years, sleeping years, creeping crosses.
I hand-rake the lichen, cake the soggy green
between fingertip and nail, I scratch clean the crosses.
Absent from the body, present in the Lord.
J.R. 1867-'93. From life through veil he crossed.
Share This Poem