a poem I admire by Sherod Santos: Out of the World There Passed a Soul The day of my mother’s funeral I spend clearing out her overgrown flower beds, down on my knees in the leaf rot, nut shells, tiny grains of sandlot sand spilling from the runoff gullies. The hot work was to see not feel what had to be done, not to go on asking, not to wonder anymore. Full from scraps I’d found at the back of the refrigerator, her mongrel dog lay curled on a stone and watched me work. It was Sunday. The telephone rang, then stopped, then rang again. By the end of the day, I’d done what I could. I swept the walk, put away the tools, switched on the indoor safety lamps, and then (it hardly matters what I think I felt) I closed the gate on a house where no one lived anymore.
Posted on: Mon, 02 Dec 2013 15:15:27 +0000
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