|Jan/Feb 2012 Poetry Special Feature|
The trunk twists backward
where an oak leans over broken,
wrought iron fence.
Mottled light stipples
through leftover, russet leaves
onto the apron of acorns
blanketing a family of sunken graves.
They'd staked their lives on wind
and high plains, then lost their claim
Occupants in passing cars,
absorbed by speed
and the search for bars
on their cell phones,
miss the graveyard,
of their own bright story.