In the north side of the cemetery
stands a row of green trees, Dutch Elm
and a row of Sumac, with a lordly old Red Maple over all
the graves near that end are old
the well kept grounds disguise that
few if any slow and grudging steps
have fallen there in years.
Rising above the green meadow of memorial stones
a tall gray silo and block-style buildings with no windows
they make asphalt there, and the labyrinth of
road sized tubes and shafts all wear
battleship gray, there near clouds and above final rests
I slow my purposeful drive, it is hot
and the tree leaves are cupped waiting for the storm
the excited air touches my skin with electricity.
I ponder-- so many memories here
in this quiet place neath the gray silos,
and the rail spur behind the trees is full
Tank cars and asphalt carriers waiting to
re-line America-- they wait patiently to be filled-
liquid stone and the old silent stones face the scene-
rail cars and busy men, rushing, rushing
I think the old stones might say-- take your time,
on the path from thee to me;
haste is not a virtue--
and I think of the coincidence-
stellae - stele
