To William Henry Varn

My way is strewn with restless shadows.
A warm breeze swirls gently through the trees.
Squirrels chatter, birds flash by and
Time has gone away.

By chance my path has brought me here,
To this place where your journey ended;
Here, where the stones grow, cold and somber,
In careless rows.

The stones, denying and affirming
Our slippery hold on the matter of
The universe, bear blind witness to
Our joy and pain.

The statue, clothed in granite raiment
Of an age beyond my memory
Keeps its vigil though none remain of
Those who loved you.

Was yours the face of the boy who
Stands here? Did that terrible
Presence comfort those who raised it, or
Refresh the wound?

Even were they real those formless eyes
Could not see. Yet they trouble me.
Sheepishly I seek to meet a gaze
That can’t be there.

But still I feel something of you
In the stone. Alone in this place,
Boundaries are less rigid, and more there
May be than is.

I lay my hand on your shoulder
And tell you, in a whisper, but
Aloud, that you have stayed too long
And must now leave.

My way is strewn with restless shadows.
A warm breeze swirls gently through the trees.
Squirrels chatter, birds flash by and
The stone is cold beneath my hand.

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1 Comment

  1. jae polcyn

     /  September 2, 2013

    Good Stuff! Love, Your Wife

    Reply

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