I dream they
rise — the cowboys
and soldiers,
the housewives
and teachers,
the laborers —
at some unknowable
hour of secret,
liminal nights,
their coffins too
small to contain
their longing. Were
they lost all their
lives? Did they long
to be visible,
to be found,
and are they, now,
beyond the blind
gaze of the living?
Do they rise and
do they see
each other, finally,
shambling
but glorious?
The cowboys on their
magnificent horses,
parade tack,
the soldiers eternally
heroic, the homemakers
baking — oh, the warm
spice and sweetness — the
tireless teachers awakening
young minds,
and the perfect
sheen of sweat on
the beautiful
bodies of all the
laborers you
never saw.
Meditatio Ephemera 
So many stories of gallant struggles, lost forever. … Even though I had a great relationship with my parents, I find myself wishing I’d known more about their thoughts and dreams. … Have a great week, Cate. -Russ
LikeLike
Thanks, Russ. Cemeteries are a wonderful place to contemplate human experience — what we desire, what we get, the distance between, and whether any of it amounts to more than theater. I’m glad for the acts that are comedy, lest the others cast too much of a pall. 🙂 Wishing you a great week, too.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Good to ponder on a Monday morning…
LikeLike
I’m glad to hear it, Jazz.
LikeLiked by 1 person