Gophers Scurry
On a hill not so far away - -
down the deer path
where the creek meets the pasture
and up the bank
where wind blows over long grasses
on a sun shiny day --
lie stone slabs marking each generation’s passes;
emblems of suffering and dignity.
Interred the rugged people lie
under the prairie they crossed --
homes left, sea tossed
in the long journey to not home.
In the new Eden old
burdens not quite lost.
Their trophies at last they laid down --
mostly corn and wheat in the new soil,
black soil (those long grass roots).
Their own seed layed down covers it --
seasons upon seasons of toil.
It’s hot mowing the cemetery grasses.
I wipe my sweat as the mower passes
over those who clung to the old rugged cross.
I cling to them on the crown of this hill
watching gophers scurry among my roots.