Photograph by Reka Jellema. Untitled. Copyright November 26, 2014
Isaiah Sings
Father, here, I lay these at your stone
I plucked that purple beech of every leaf,
A yield of aubergine to cull and shuck
And sew into a royal robe:
We tucked you in.
And now I make my peace
With your patch of green
Now I lay me down, the prayer begins
And if I die before I wake? O mercy
May we pass unscathed
Before you any more souls take.
Father, from that old beech
I brought for you a rich
Autumnal plunder
Or would you favor yellowed maples?
For here they come, gentle from these trees
To circle the grave yard
To quilt its lawn
Your boy, the one you lost, sleeps on
Though the scripture promised
He will run again
He will be young and strong
Upon a limb of pine an eagle
Looks down. I kneel
Beside your bones,
I tell my little one,
Isaiah sings us home.
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