Woodsmoke. Wayne Caldwell
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him yonder with the gates of heaven opening up
Atop his marble column. What I hear, he likely busted other gates
Wide open, but that’s not mine to judge. There’s all kind of tomb rocks,
From store-bought stones with “Gone but not Forgotten,”
To square rectangles with hand-chiseled names and dates
But no room (or maybe patience) for words of remembrance,
To moss- and lichen-covered fieldstones
Under which lie stillbirths and babies lived a day or two.
Birdie and me had one of them, she called her Sarah,
But the young’un never even cried.
She’s buried way over yonder where it’s as quiet as she was
So she can listen to the birds in peace,
And she’s got the best view of Pisgah a gal could want.
I planted that butterfly bush next to Birdie ’cause she loved ’em,
And I put in that lilac close to Sarah. Birdie, bless her,
Planted March flowers on our girl’s grave
So early spring I come up here for yellow comfort.
I thin and replant ever few years — Birdie’s circled by
The children of Sarah’s first flowers. She’d like that.
One of these days they’ll lay me down beside her
Forever to sleep. By then, I’m sure, I’ll need the rest.
Long Tom
Back when Papa built this house
He bought a Sears and Roebuck Long Tom
Twelve-gauge goose gun.
Forty-one-inch barrel, all the recoil pad
A solid walnut stock affords.
It still hangs by the front door,
Loaded with number two. It ain’t never
Killed nothing ’cept squirrels
And rabbits and mistletoe
But the way this world’s a-going
It might someday kill a thief.
It’s real accurate
Fifty yards out or more.
Closer in, it don’t have to be.
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