Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Only the Hemlocks
Raindrops splash on a dashboard Jesus.
The coroner’s van sits black as a crow.
Streetlight halos hang empty of angels.
While hemlocks watch over the chaos below.
Over water and blood and gas and oil,
Over hush of death, and hand of fate,
Over waning cries, and tears and toil,
As they flow into the culvert’s grate.
Into the blackness, toward the ocean,
Back to the place where life began,
And what remains is towed away,
Or placed into the waiting van.
And only the hemlocks stand in witness,
As flashing lights at dawn abate,
And as painted roadside crosses fade,
Only the hemlocks wait.
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3 comments:
At four separate locations near my home stand four roadside crosses. I’ve driven by each of them with some regularity for many years. Each one is painted white. Each one was once decorated with flowers, photos, and other offerings. Each one now stands unadorned and fading. Each one is located below or very near a stand of hemlock trees. This poem is for the souls of four people I never knew. May they continue to live on in someone’s memory.
Goosebumps....and tears!
AAA
It's interesting you posted this blog because I pass at least two of those crosses daily. One is recent with plastic flowers commemorating a 15 year old boy who skate-boarded into the street without looking and met an oncoming car.
The other cross is weathered, but reminds me of how fragile life really is. A hospital employee was on her way to work three winters ago when an iced-over tree toppled over on top of her vehicle. Two seconds in either direction would have saved her life.
You never know.
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