Just after sunrise, I trudge over
The firm, New England soil
Of Oak Grove Cemetery
With my fishing gear in hand
In pursuit of the trout pools beyond this knoll
My rod rests upon my shoulder
Through the wrought-iron gates,
Over the crumbling stone walls
Where, in the cold, the partridges perch
Lambs, carved of stone, converge
On the meadow, near the river’s edge
Flecked and chipped by the withering wind
Sometimes, I linger
Stop to read the gravestones:
Annabella Adamson, 1865-1870,
Matthew Reyonolds, age 3,
Beloved son of Aaron and Sarah
Joshua, Elizabeth, Samuel, Claire
I rub away the dirt
One hundred years of history
Wonder, who would be saved today
By medicine and science?
No one visits the plots of these children
Long dead, untended gravesites
Overrun with purple thistles and Queen Anne’s lace
Patches of wild elderberries
The chiseled engravings erode,
Hollowed and gouged crevices,
The stones sink into the earth’s mire
The names of the dead forever effaced