Oxford County, Maine
Here the dead far outnumber the living,
& what my father called a “marble orchard”
rises around each turn. His mother’s side
first settled only a stone’s throw from where,
my Cardinals cap protecting me against
less-than-distant shotguns aimed at small birds,
I search out motherlodes of amethyst
or tourmaline & come up with fool’s gold.
I’ve never looked his headstone in the face,
but forty years ago this hunting season
he had me sounding off in woods like these
myself. Instead, I kneel with my own son
in quartz-cold air flecked with snow like mica,
digging for the stone with my name on it.
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