North woods obelisk,
red weather-scars weeping blood
The name has washed away from your pedestal—
Julius? Frank? The characters aren’t clear,
half-discernable forms of laurel-leaves
etchings in stone
meant to last forever
Were you a man of distinction,
a personality to be put on by a high-school drama student
for the historical society’s Christmas play?
Or did you find your way to Potter’s Field
or even far Peking?
Did your children come this way
and lay roses on your grave?
The woods will honor you
bachelor’s buttons and cinquefoils
amidst the colonnades
August 2010
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