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by some forsaken
the fondest memories
a slight of hand
a slower fate than most
whispers sworn
to secret
reserved for us the same
reminders of another
love I knew –
will I

a silent praise
along the path
for someone no one knows
hands are folded
quilts are wearing through
who of me
I wonder
will there be
when I am gone –
will one return
to speak my name

. . .

I moved back to Tennessee in 1991.  Three days after the
first on the porch, I noticed something along the back fence line – an edge
amid the briar.  It was a portion of cemetery marker, apparently from
the time when many civil war battles were fought nearby.

There is no name…only dates.  When days are hot, it is a place of retreat,
and many poems have found word there.  Yesterday morning, it seemed
the only place to be – held by one without a name, as witness to my tears.
(I shall give).

Image: 1998 somewhere between here and the place where I was born.  Souls
sleep where solace grows deepest.  “Ask not for whom the bell tolls….”

. . .