Flesh and Stone

FLESH AND STONE

Enshrouded in gray and green and ebony,
With the wind caressing the grass,
Shaking the sweet dew bubbles,
She is buried below the manicured turf,
Listening to the roar of diesels and jets,
to a tear rolling down a cheek,
to footsteps in the darkness.
Lying fallow,
Patiently,
Neath black ragged clouds,
Showered with gentle rain,
Soaking into the ground,
Cold and damp.

Kneeling in the short grass,
Nourished by maternal marrow,
With a handful of wild flowers,
Swathed in blue-black woolen from the sea and
close-cropped hair hidden in clean white canvas.
Eyes hardened in hell
are softened by the moment,
when a boy that was twisted into a man
untwists.

A hand reaches out and touches stone.
A finger caresses a cold copper name;
the curves and length and breadth of it.
Silence and sunshine,
With nothing moving on the earth.
Yes, the raucous roar of planes,
and the drone of the freeway,
and the wind in the dandelions,
and the gushing of blood through veins;
all are stilled;
While soft flesh rubbed against rigid rock,
making no noise.

July 1967
Glenn Buttkus