A Clearing

I came into the remains
of a clearing inside

heavy weald near to the old
white farmhouse and just back
of a ramshackled tobacco shed
where the long forgotten
tractor meditatively rusted
into its disassociated dreary
parts under dull passionless
New England rains. Rains that suit

forgetting, numbing even the weary
soils, the tired souls who clamber
through century upon century–
pressing secrets between pages
of family bibles, putting by the odd
dollar or three in an old strong box
salted away in the yard but neglect
to pass such treasures on.

And in the bare space
that I had chanced upon–

wildflowers had come and morning
glories ran free, the feral descendants
of ancient tulips and funereal lilies
nurtured their noble lineage
on glacial till. Lying silently about
in various angles of repose
weathered stones, some broken
others simply melted away taking

all memory of those who sleep
in a long forgotten clearing
but the lilies bloom still and March
Jonquils open lemon cups in the rain
reliably in spring so a stranger
will know these few were loved
by somebody once.