By David Eide  


A roar appears above the fields
on the outskirts of a dance between the
living and the dead.

Grass is stark like the mountains of Mars.
Uneven polished graves tossed out at Midnight
where the soldiers and pioneers lay.

And comes the new procession, 
up the long hill
From the dirty city.
A common man is to be buried.

The birds sweep the fields like scavengers at Gettysburg
Memories of the lost bulge now
Against a mossy, wet Earth that has them.

“Finality is only illusion.”
Perhaps. No, it is something we know solid in us.
The finality is only with ourselves.

We will not hear the sweet voice
We will not see the confident pose
We will not taste the food he makes
We will not smell the clothes he wore.

How many 
Still left to go?
And was the death of Socrates any different than this one?

A wild bird, unknown in these parts, has sprung from a crack in the mausoleum.
The air is smothering like a family get together; the benefits of nature are trampled
Here, repaired  during the glowing moon.

There is life we cannot record or capture. We apprehend it
Whole, in an instant, before the dirty mind calculates revenge on what 
proves beauty’s reality.