Vox Populi
A curated webspace for Poetry, Politics, and Nature. Over 16,000 daily subscribers. Over 7,000 archived posts.
Gary Fincke: The Local Cemetery
I went by myself, late
In the summer, looking
At first, over my shoulder
Like some clumsy spy.
I walked to the brightest
Cut flowers and paid
Attention to last week’s date,
The name of a woman
From my street. Her husband
Had come here yesterday.
He had looked, I supposed,
At his dates, 1920-199_,
Giving himself four years,
And I have been with my father
When he stood on the grass
And said, “You can always
Find me here.” He gestured
And meant me to think
Of the nearby plot as mine;
I kept walking and found
Whole families, like ours,
Together for a hundred years,
Settled in from Europe
And never moving again,
Never thinking of moving,
And even now, my sister
Has moved back to Pittsburgh,
Two miles from my father,
And asks when I’m coming home,
Says she has purchased space
In the Garden of Dreams,
Which, so far, leaves me out,
Kicking the earth hundreds
Of miles away, picking up
The one stone I’ve seen in all
Of this grass and sailing it
Into the trees where it rattles
And falls into silence.
Copyright 2021 Gary Fincke. Previously published in Poetry and in Blood Ties, Time Being Books.
Gary Fincke has won numerous awards for his writing, including the Bess Hokin Prize from Poetry Magazine. He lives in Selinsgrove, Pennsylvania.
Vox Populi 
When we start burying ( or scattering) thoughts come. Mom in an urn next to her second husband, dad in a bird sanctuary, my husband scattered, yet on place is under a eucalyptus tree by a common route and I often say hi as I drive by. I think I want to provide unburnt nutrients for a forest tree.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I like this poem a lot. A quote is trying to come to me from somewhere: don’t look for me there….
LikeLiked by 2 people