Tombstone

Limbs in thoughtless piles

behind the surgeons tent.

Scarred, the wounded stand,

only because they’re bent.

The creek bleeds their sap,

and the air smells of tar.

Where there once was a trail,

no one walks very far.

And, after all is taken,

except those not chosen.

Heavens remain shaken,

emotions unfrozen.

When I can finally bear

to stroll about this land.

The green regrows the fair.

Now I can understand.

Even if all that’s good

rests in this rock alone.

All’s gone,

there is no wood,

but upended friends’

tombstone.

2019

Photo by Mar Startari, 2019

Maria Startari-Stegall