Birding at the Cemetery
This is a lively place. I see the high
degree of landscape art so well displayed;
a festival of trees and shrubs arrayed
for the passed and planned that friends might lie
in this city green, or amble by
the paths of columbine where children played,
chasing wooden hoops beneath the shade
of beech and maple spanned across the sky.
At the gate, a faded blackboard lists
ducks and warblers, chats and orioles.
I read, then plot my walk to look for birds
above my buried friends whose call persists
in me. I stroll, pause above their souls
listening; a bird’s cry sounds like sacred words.
One thought on “Patricia Callan”
Patricia, this is a very tight little poem, rich in images and feeling. I enjoyed reading it.
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