At the Cemetery

I’ve often passed by, but never stopped.

Yesterday, some energy called “home”

drew the iron core of me

toward an always open gate.

In that place, beneath raindrop-robed

crepe myrtle choirs, leaning crosses

and lichen-layered angel wings,

among family plots of fallen tomb bricks

wrapped in running summer vines,

reading weathered elegies for the ancient dead

like Braille for the blinded wanderer,

breathing sweet magnolia-scented blessings

offered up for those of us left living

on this sweltering stone of earth —

there knelt a linen-clad Child.

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Greenwood Cemetery (est. 1821) in the city of Tuscaloosa, Alabama

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