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.