Crickets in the Grave Flowers

Crickets in the Grave Flowers When an old man dies, A library burns to the ground. . . Sometime, somewhere, someone Repeated that African proverb to me I think of that and feel the hollowness In the sound of these crickets hiding in the grave flowers. Homeless, I wander across desolate plains. . . Fatherless now I must realize that he will not step from behind the barn. I must realize That when I hear a strange noise and turn quickly to see him there I will never be quick enough. I will no longer touch the bristles on his face. His hands were strong and veined, I see them now. At once gone, Once again everywhere. They touched this cabin wood, This Chestnut sprout, This Hickory bark, These rough sawed boards. Here they rested on my youthful head And grasped firmly my hand as a young man. They touched this earth Raking across the stones in toil. Say goodbye, The Hemlocks whisper. . . Say goodbye, The Oaks echo. . . Say goodbye. . . His eyes will never again see Pink Lady's Slipper bloom in May. Say Goodbye, Say Goodbye. . . I cannot say goodbye. I cannot say goodbye these autumn days when I ache from the loss. I cannot say goodbye as my symbol shuffles through the Maple leaves Washing across this grey earth. He laughed, But I never saw him weep. He walked where flowers bloom, Spoke native languages in Haiku. . . 66 Brief messages of complexity found in the simple things. I studied him Like the university he was. . . Earned the several degrees under his thick eyebrows. Sometimes eagerly lapping the lesson, Sometimes resistant But a well disciplined student Who listened with him to pheasant wings beating a woodland drum; To crickets under his hearthstone; To the angry bee buzzing out of the Catalpa bloom; To the music made by leaf colors falling. . . A student who watched small birds search the snow; Tall ridges comb the clouds; Roses strive in vain; Cloud ships in the sky; Mules thinking of oats; Dogwood blooms falling on blue pond waters. . . Today the library burned; I felt it useless to start another But he would have demanded it. "Look at the volumes you already have!" he'd say. "Rebuild, Rebuild, Rebuild!" —James B. Goode I've Seen Too Much of It I've seen too much of iti?t to be wide-eyed again. . . X ^ ^ Was once a towheaded boy in these hills,. "^ Freckled naivete-J!*-,; >¦¦' „ (/ $ Until Vietnam*£/¦ , ^^"^, When people I tried to hug afterwardsr ' ?. \ Had no arms.=**·- *¦# Learned too much about people, Saw too much of it To be wide-eyed again. Heard the rock that fell On my best friend. Saw my Daddy choose a Saturday, When he was supposed to be at the flea market, Die quietly On the toolhouse steps. I've seen too much of it To be wide-eyed again. —James B. Goode 67 ...