We can never be with loss too long.
Behind the warped door that sticks,
the wood thrush calls to the monks,
pausing atop the stone crucifix,
singing: “I am marvelous alone!”
Thrash, thrash goes the hayfield:
rows of marrow and bone undone.
The horizon’s flashing fastens tight,
sealing the blue hills with vermillion.
Moss dyes a squirrel’s skull green.
The cemetery expands its borders —
little milky crosses grow like teeth.
How kind time is, altering space
so nothing stays wrong: and light,
more new light, always arrives.
Spencer Reece, “At Thomas Merton’s Grave” from The Road to Emmaus. Copyright © 2014 by Spencer Reece. Reprinted by permission of the publisher.
Source: The Road to Emmaus (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2014)