For Carry McGavock: Keeper of the Dead

(just so none of you will lock me up as crazy, the context is Franklin, Tennessee, Civil War era. If you don't know about Carry McGavock, you should look her up)

Alone I walk among the shades of grey;
I pass the time conversing with the dead
And relish in the beautiful decay.

No soul but mine could know the thoughts I weigh
Within my heart, or hear the whispers said
Among the halls where walk the shades of grey.

Through pain I kill to save and heal to slay,
But not a single guilty tear is shed
For aiding in the natural decay.

I shroud myself in pious black array
And softly traipse the place where men once bled
Before they walked among the shades of grey.

All others view my pastime with dismay
And think a woman feeble in the head
Who relishes consumption and decay.

Yet someday soon their names will find a way
Into my small, brown book that all men dread
To join the walk among the shades of grey,
Forever clothed in beautiful decay.

Apple Spice Cookies

We’re cutting apples,
the oven heated to 350°.
Let’s make cookies, I had said,
and you shrugged, watching me
as I began to measure and mix
until I looked at you
pointedly
and put you to work.
Now I’m helping, my modest knife
making smaller cuts while yours,
the “manly knife,” handles bigger wedges.
Neither of us talking, the kitchen silent
except for the clop, clop of the knives
against the board. Emphasized silence.

My face turns to the work, while inside
my mind is turning, turning,
unable to dismiss the words that slip,
unsaid,
though the charged air.
Several minutes tick away, rising
and falling with the beat of the knives.
I wait for the silence to break
like thunder announcing the storm.
But it doesn’t.
And so I speak. And you speak.
Our words fall in beat with our work,
soft, measured, cautious,
but true. Real.

Our knives still, the work done.
The apples fall into the batter,
disappearing beneath oats and nutmeg.
Our eyes meet across the counter,
mine ocean-grey, yours mountain-brown.
I look away first and begin dolloping
the would-be cookies onto wax paper,
trying hard to create uniformity
out of the uneven blobs.
You sidestep the counter,
removing the space between us,
and lean into the bend of my neck.
Again your words are few, whispered,
but they are enough.

The cookies are in the oven now—
I think they will be good.

Eventide

Shadows descend on the valley,
Hawks surrendering their skies to brother owl,
Effectively transitioning;
Like the changing of the guard, the night watchman takes his post.
Lingering light shudders, then plunges into dusky dreams;
Your eyes, heavy with sleep, quickly follow suit.

Sonnet 4

As time unfolds and shows itself anew,
Earth shifts its colors, shaking off the guise
Which through the years had veiled my callow eyes
And shown me only shades of what is true;
The depth of light far deeper than I knew
And truth of yore now seems today as lies
As foolish thoughts have given way to wise
My lucid mind bespeaks a sharper view.
Yet still the turning ages bring a change
To all things bound within the grasp of time.
Just as the tender shoot to tree shall grow,
So shall my pliant mind expand its range.
Although the past makes present seem as prime
A time yet waits when I shall fully know.

Sonnet 3

So often darkness swallows fading day,
And trembling I long for warmth and light
But plunge on through the unforgiving night
Too stubborn-willed to quit or change my way.
More oft than not I find myself astray
And bent beneath the weight of growing plight
Until I can no more suppress my fright
And losing heart succumb to grim dismay.
Yet even as my heart the night invades,
You then appear and cause the dread to cease.
Your voice like flowing water stills my strife.
My troubled mind your calming presence aides
And turns my warring darkness into peace;
I thank my God to have you in my life.