One of the poets to reach me as a teen is buried near Rutland, Vermont. Not sure why I have this itch to visit her place of rest, and to walk by the home where she once lived. It’s been nagging at me for a few years now. On Wednesday I begin my long drive to the other coast, where I will pay my respects.
I think I’ll sing a couple of her poems by her plot.
A Strange Anticipation
How is it I feel the slight wind even now,
almost breathing on my thoughts, and
the gentle green resistance of grass
beneath my tennis shoes?
How is it I sense a partial shade
across the hairs of my neck,
cast by the whispering arms of a fir
planted long before my time?
How is it I see through surrounding trees
small white clouds, folding in silent
contrast across clear blue depths, and there
your weather beaten stone?
Though I have yet to pay my respects, I feel
an approaching familiarity.
I don’t know what compels me to drive so far,
just to stand by your grave.
Maybe I hope to find a touch of your presence,
still lingering behind.
Or perhaps some small piece of inspiration,
left twinkling in the grass.
