13,664. I WANT TO TELL YOU

I WANT TO TELL YOU 

Any number of things come to mind:

that stippled graveyard on the edge

of the hill mostly bears names from

the post-Civil War. I don't know why,

yet there's probably more to that story

then meets my eye. A local contingent,

maybe, all rounded up dead and brought

home. There's a book about that too,

called 'This Republic of Suffering' -

by Drew Gilpin Faust.

-

Over by the wooded lands, there are

12 vehicles, just left in the weeds,

about 30 years back, I guess. 1960's

cars, mostly, now all gone to hell. In

them, now, can be found the assorted

tendrils and growths of all that time,

repeating itself each season of growth

and of the cold spate of death that

ensues. Things come back; nothing 

moves. It seems like that, everywhere.

-

There's a difference between these two

sets  -  of time and of era. Yet, they

each achieve the very same thing  -

making me think of life's movement.

A feint, perhaps? A false move, like

a bull-fighter makes to outclass the

bull. Soon to die. Soon to be labeled.

Dead.