Classic Poem

One is struck by the form ,
or closure to these lives—the stone
chord of their repose that presses
up into the wind forever
certain keys of greyed granite.

The Crowne family: Fourteen
graves in a ring, untended
yet legible still. They seem
to have taken it well—in strict
order, you might say—disaster. It couldn't break
the family circle nor erase the name.

Of course they ordained it—some
such bright morning maybe as this
with the young hawks coasting and calling
in the white foam of the clouds,
in the time of the wild blackberries. . . .

INFANT CHILD INFANT CHILD
MOTHER NETTIE SILAS HAROLD

how and where they would form themselves
for that last cold Public Appearance—
in which we encounter them these
hundred years later—we
who are here or are not here more
like smoke or like frost, everything
with us is so open-ended.