Quaker Churchyard Rain Poem by David McLansky

Quaker Churchyard Rain



A little mark
To say we lived,
A scratch upon a stone,
A barren note of
Birth and death,
A buried batch of bones;
The grace, the beauty,
The sparkling wit,
The places we have roamed,
Extinguished, evanesced, untraced
In cold and cobbled loam.

Friday, February 21, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: places,birth
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