Cody Marby

March 26th, 1892.

Abreast the dry creek and below the eroded hills,
shelves of cold tablets span the New England fog.
Arranged in lifeless rows--
oh, columns of man--
carving titles to a library
no further read than forgotten.

One can hear the lively spade
of the old gravedigger--
A man who has never met a soul,
yet introduces every body
to their keeper:
he who knows how it feels
to imprison the echoes of eternity,
how it sounds
to hear their silence weep. 

Honorable Mention in the 44th New Millennium Writing Award for Poetry.