POSTCARDS

I

Blank headstones that mirror

the mourners and the kids

sweating in hand-me-down suits.

Someone must have thought

these rituals keep the dead down

at least until the trumpets blow

and the fire-breathing angels

come to harrow our houses.

II

A wild spring in the fields

of the foothills smeared with lupine

and poppy. The great peaks, cold,

white, breathless, looked down

with disdain. Three finches,

then a fourth, black-capped,

darted in and out of the light,

reminding us it was not too late.

III

No one bent down to pick up

the cotton work-glove stained

with pollen, the sad remains

of campfires, ashes, glass, stiff

crusts of bread, unread letters.

It was all there silently

telling us what was waiting.

IV

Off in the distance you can hear

a hammering and then the quick

explosions of the jackhammer

carving the hardpan. Where there

was space there will be rooms

without windows, rectangular,

severe, there will be high shelves

sagging under the weight of seashells,

feathers, sallow photographs,

blank journals, wedding rings.