Shed
Let’s say you’re in the cemetery alone,
a graveyard for clover and stone. Let’s say
this is an old ground, lichen swallowing
letters, moss under every foot. Not
every stone stands upright, not every
marker still marks. You trace loops
around your forebears. The pines,
the walnuts have done their best.
You know every branch must let go
sometime. You can measure the odds—
say eight trees. Say one hundred. One
you. Logs heavy with lightning strikes,
flicker holes, ants. Branches shedding
loads of bark, throwing it all to the ground.
Is this your plot of earth? Is this? Count
all the branches whose time has come.
ABIGAIL CLOUD is the Editor-in-Chief of Mid-American Review and teaches full time at Bowling Green State University. Read more.