this breath
the preacher said
was like God

no eye has seen
it force
the wintered stalks
to bend and nod

they remain
blandly colored
these unplanted muted
but surely rooted
stalks

sounding together
as a crowd clapping
or lapping
of the sea

not standing guard
but still guarding
the edge
where ordinary
tips into grief

where shadows of dormant trees
square off the grass beds
where arthritic fingers
linger over
the place of the dead

how ominous it should feel
inside the four-square
on the bench
from the sisters of the shadows
there

But only sad

the skeletal remains
of a wind chime
adorning a headstone

don’t ring

only there is the sound
of those stalks
applauding our efforts
at soothing

the sting