Wooden Markers
"There was an old cemetery
in that fence row.
Thirty some graves I've heard;
no record of it at the court house."
The neighbor pointed past
the corn rows,
Round Up sterile,
to posts askew
like aged teeth;
broken wire pulled down by sod,
prickly with random barbs
and wild roses.
No sign of it, or them,
who might be there yet,
no concrete vault
or weather weary headstone
to chip the disk blades.
Gone with
the builder of the fence
ever fertile dust,
scattered by the plow.
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