Cemetary Sestina
Several
times I have walked by Arlington Cemetery
and felt my face wilt.
I’ve waded through Washington D.C’s ever-present puddles
to work every day and thought of stopping, reading the yellow,
moss ruined words on the graves of people who used to exist
But never have I paused there to ponder my own existence.
Perhaps it’s easier to think of things in a pleasant yellow
light than in the dark abyss that is Arlington Cemetery
and all cemeteries alike. One would soon realize, sitting in a puddle,
their own fragility and how they would soon wilt
from the cold, but one does not think of wilting
when lying lazily in the grass, simply existing.
Not to say that we should only consider the puddles
in life. Several
people in the world get by without seeing them at all and make it to the cemetery
oblivious, faces always towards the yellow.
They don’t realize that yellow
is brighter after seeing total darkness. A flower is born from light, but wilts
from light too. Flowers are not afraid of the cemetery
because they, like Buddhists, know they will exist
again. To truly live, one must know several
days of sun, know several days of puddles
and believe that the former will come around again. Know where the puddles
are so you might see your face for a moment, then leap over them, yellow
raincoat and all. Several
years later when your face is weathered and wilted
you can be proud of your existence
and saunter fearlessly, eloquently into the cemetery.
One of these days I am going to walk into Arlington Cemetery,
observe the puddles
of war and think about why I exist.
I’ll wipe away the yellow
grime from the names, for they are names to be remembered, and remove the wilted
roses for some new ones. For the future, for the world, I will place several
new roses. Perhaps some yellow, several
that can exist through the puddles.
Roses that may wilt, but will not be forever dead in the cemetery
Copyright © Mary Hartong | Year Posted 2010
|