At Thomas
Merton’s Grave
We can
never be with loss too long.
Behind the
warped door that sticks,
the wood
thrush calls to the monks,
pausing
upon the stone crucifix,
singing: “I
am marvelous alone!”
Thrash,
thrash goes the hayfield:
rows of
marrow and bone undone.
The
horizon’s flashing fastens tight,
sealing the
blue hills with vermilion.
Moss dyes a
squirrel’s skull green.
The
cemetery expands its borders—
little
milky crosses grow like teeth.
How kind
time is, altering space
so nothing
stays wrong; and light,
more new
light, always arrives.
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