Land of Graves
Land of Graves
A land of graves makes for quiet neighbors.
He who blessed or cursed extant thereupon remains
Shall suffer little disturbance at the will of his resting countrymen.
The deep silence of an irrevocable sleep pervades his surrounds.
His own sleep mimics that of his departed brethren
But that kin to living rest is a far colder, everlasting condition.
Lest it be by the appearance of some revenant,
His nights will be those of uninterrupted stillness.
The surface of this vast earthen sarcophagus is adorned with faltering monuments-
The souls of their corresponding constituency have long-since dispersed in nihilum-
Leaving playing children and Springtime Sunday-afternoon-passersby
To speculate on their origins and exits, lives and times.
But make no mistake this is not a wholly moribund environment.
There is life in this soil yet. There is an irrepressible profusion reclaiming
This tomb from its own looming finality. The tomb is rendered womb by its power.
The tomb-womb is green. It is a garden, a park, a yard and an arboretum.
It is a charnel conservatory of the deceased, yes, but this sepulchered meadow
Exists as much if not more for those with air in their lungs and blood
In their veins as it does for those buried beneath its grassy lawns.
Though in little more than a generation even the freshest entries into its
Assembly will receive only sparing or incidental visitation.
The ancestry hobbyist and the armchair genealogist will pay their homage.
The digger of graves and the mower of lawns will be more frequent still.
Is maintenance in the face of inevitability an exercise in courage or folly?
Perhaps it is just necessary for life to go on.
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