There was a girl
a girl in white bonnet
picking chrysanthemums or lilies at the first crack of morning,
you knew her.
There was the mother the mother running, holding her calico dress calling out "Melissa!"
as the girl's arms flung up and back. There were the lines of boys, barely men in blue and gray, veterans
of Manassas or Harpers Ferry
who now leaned against their muskets and called a truce.
It grew so quiet
you'd think a day for catching trout and then I carried the girl
this girl
past the mother and the sod house under the orange-glazed sky through the dew and crisp grass until I buried her by the creek that puled its silent prayer
the clear cool brook that trickled trickled trickled.


© 2008 - Hemmings