It is world of parabolic
horizon, hastily razored fields
left-over stubble of unshaven farmers
where stooks stand at dawn. On the day
he is buried, land vibrates
knowing hands that have loved it
Stands of poplars shake
their leafy lanterns unfold
sound crisp as linen, a memory
of dresses sweeping wooden floors.
Nothing can compare
to the way prairie breathes in
breathes out, embraces season
with sudden death, painfully labors
spring to green; and so it goes.
As he is lowered, no sound
but that of lowering, until the train -
its language leaving us before it begins.
- For REC - 1921 - 2008