9/07/2008

Spikes Cemetary 9/6.08

As thoughts ramble thru this ancient Sabine forest,
Of Hickory, Oak and Pine,
As kin and neighbors of long ago,
Gather upon this hallow ground,
Stories transpire over cups of coffee boiled,
Filtered thru Grandpa's last sock,
Worn thing with age, as his skin roughen,
From years spent in mule's paths,
A teamster with his team,
Harvesting Pine and Blackjack Oak,
Stopping only to fill his pockets,
With morsels of Hickory Nuts,
For our youthful tongues,
To tingle our senses of life's abundant wonder.

We this day are gathered round this communal fire,
Feeding upon someone's homemake cake,
It is of this feast we do partake,
Where once by an ancient sea,
A multitude was fed upon loaves and fishes,
Ever so grateful of this sacrifice,
This lamb, given, to give us solace,
We sit, ramble round as this Sept wind,
Whistles thru the tall pines,
Whose straws flutter and spiral down,
From the crown, as wings of quail,
Rustle from the Dogwood,
As the lamb ascends,
We, stand upon hallow ground.