Late in the afternoon
Near winter’s early dark
I walk with the Dead
At Buttonwood Park

Behind these iron gates
There’s no gossiping here
Secrets are whispered
In each grave plot’s ear

All listen patiently
Without a spoken word
Gracious stone-faced crowd
No judgement is heard

I know every name
They know more of me
With one exception
When my end shall be

I think of tomorrow
Doubting heaven’s glory
Ponder two dates that
Bookend one’s story

LOST in the middle of
Self-written history
The antagonist
No nobility

Three geese fly overhead
Triangle trinity
Pater Filius
Spiritus Sancti

Sounds like that rusty swing
Their honking in the sky
When I remember
I break down and cry

Higher, daddy, higher
Two ghost girls are yelling
Then suddenly gone
At town clock knelling

Inside a sycamore
Protected from the wind
Match to their candles
Prayers are lit again

Flames flicker like my faith
Over coffin-length sod
Little babies sleep
Where oh where is God?
Andrew Dabar