Away from the hugeness of the meadow
where colors blur and bleed,
muted brushstrokes of goldenrod, red clover,
purple ironweed, and milkweed, swept vaguely across
the too-wide canvas of summer
Inside the cool of the woods an aisle of pines
leads to a circle of stones
near a stream with a coppery bottom
Inside the circle are the initials of
dead people, yours but not mine, yet,
scratched into the loamy soil by some invisible hand,
at the beginning of time
Let’s meet there some day, you and I,
away from the color-filled meadow
at the conclusion of the aisle of pines
inside the circle of stones
where incense burns to fine white ash
Anne Wooster Drury’s work appears in Blueline, Ibbetson Street, Gravel and other fine journals.
